Gentlemen And Slayer Start Your Engines!
by Manchester
Summary: Buffy Summers finds a very unique way of celebrating the Memorial Day weekend.
1. Chapter 1

The young woman flexed her hands around the steering wheel she was fiercely gripping, and she tried to convince herself that nobody could see her maniac grin hidden by her helmet. Her mood was considerably different from what she'd felt just months ago.

* * *

The instant Buffy Summers opened her eyes early in the morning, she knew that this day was going to be what she'd been dreading for the last week. No, no, not the day of her 'special friend.' That had been two weeks ago. Though, this event deserved its own quotation marks.

As Buffy stared up at the ceiling from lying in her bed, the overpowering sense of depression flattening her very soul informed the woman that today was going to be the 'blah' day.

* * *

"Really, Buffy, a more accurate medical description would be a 'maniac-depression phase caused by serious post-traumatic stress disorder,' not…not….something that was created by onomatopoeia!"

In her comfortable chair in the doctor's office, Buffy wryly smiled at the earnest older man seated across the desk from her. Those who knew her well would have been surprised by her feelings about the other person, considering how much the Slayer disliked the medical profession that she'd spent so much time around being treated -- both mentally and bodily -- of her injuries that she'd gained protecting the world from the dark forces. However, Buffy would have loudly informed anyone that there were exceptions, and she genuinely liked the doctor she was seeing for her therapy.

It was true that the man could be a pompous windbag at times, and his brother was a neat freak beyond compare. Plus, both had been married to women that after being described to Buffy, the former Sunnydale resident had mentally catalogued these ex-wives as 'ever-present stench of evil' and 'permanent risk of being staked by mistake.'

However, Doctor Frasier Crane was genuinely first-rate at his psychiatric endeavors, and he truly wished the best for his patients. Whoever or whatever they were. Also, Buffy always had a soft spot for those she had personally saved, as she'd done in the parking structure in Seattle next to the building where Doctor Crane had his radio show.

That specific program had been the reason she'd been there in the first place to save the good doctor from a vampire. One night in the rainy city, she'd been idly listening to the radio in her car while following a vamp to its nest and the rest of the blood-drinking demons for her to Slay, and she'd become interested in a psychiatric talk-show. The guy calmly dispensing advice and encouragement to the weirdest possible callers to his radio show seemed to be very good at his job, and he sounded like he wouldn't be rattled by anything told to him, no matter how ludicrous or offbeat it sounded. Like vampires, demons, and Slayers, including a specific warrior woman who was becoming increasingly worried about her strong feelings of despair and misery that happened like clockwork every few months.

Staking a vampire into ashes hadn't exactly been Buffy's intention of introducing herself to Frasier Crane, but at least it had been extremely convincing in showing the man about the world of the dark, and he'd handled it a lot better than others the blonde woman had known. Instead of being in shock, denying it all, and going back to his disbelieving world, the doctor had spent a few minutes furiously thinking about it, and then he'd wanted to know more. It had ended with them both going to a deserted coffee bar called Café Nervousa, with Buffy telling him as much as she safely could. Including the warning that nobody got out of their world in one piece, and the wounds weren't just to the body, but sometimes to the very soul.

Frasier Crane had just gazed at her then, and a compassionate look had appeared on his face, as he reached out to pat her hand, and gently said, "I'm listening."

It had all ended up with the doctor moving from Seattle to Cleveland, to continue his radio show in his new location, and to treat Buffy and other Slayers for their mental and emotional damages of defending the world from the Hellmouth. Somehow, Frasier had also acquired a few other patients from the uncanny and fantastic side of the universe. Werewolves, benign demons, and other strange creatures seeking relief from their mental troubles had began appearing in his office, all receiving the good doctor's best efforts.

Back in the office, Buffy glanced down at her chair, and idly wondered what the last unearthly patient occupying that piece of furniture had told the man across the desk. Switching her attention back to the doctor waiting for her to further describe her feelings of depression, the young woman smiled at Frasier and asked the question that had suddenly popped into her mind.

"How come you're not totally freaked out by your new patients? I mean, you must be hearing the strangest stuff…."

Frasier keenly eyed the young woman, and wondered if this was a diversion from Buffy trying to avoid talking about her own emotions. Inwardly, he shrugged, adding this data to what he knew about Elizabeth Anne Summers, and dryly answered her question.

"I've had experience with various people, that even if they were human, they were equally eccentric. Though, what I've come to understand now, I have to wonder…." The man looked thoughtful, and started his own question. "Buffy, you must know a lot about demons--"

"Slay, not know," corrected Buffy, shrugging into the doctor's surprised features at her interruption.

"Yes, well," continued Frasier, "I just wanted to ask you, is there an actual demon species that lives solely on beer and has the mental or mystical powers to make sure they never have to pay off a bar tab that equals the national debt?"

Buffy blinked at this outlandish question, and answered honestly, "Not that I ever heard. Why on earth do you want to know?"

"Oh, I just have my suspicions…." brooded Frasier. Looking at Buffy's puzzled face, the doctor harrumphed, and began again. "Now, I think we should get back to business. About your….'blah' days," the older man grimaced at having to use that specific word, but he went on, "there's an interesting fact about them that you may have overlooked. Namely, how they manage to appear with unvarying regularity and predictability every six months."

"Yeah, so?" said Buffy a bit defensively.

Frasier calmly said, "Buffy, while tragic events on a specific day can create feelings of depression and loss every time that anniversary comes around, from what you've told me, there seems to have been nothing explicit during that time period that explain your feelings. Rather, these days of despair seem to express your cumulative weariness about all your pain that's happened in your life since you became the Slayer."

The man watched the woman before him clearly thinking this over, and reluctant agreement beginning to appear on her face. Buffy looked at Frasier, and said a little desperately, "So, how do I get better? I mean, it's not like I can stop being a Slayer, or redo my whole life since I was Called -- well, there was that time with Anya's memory spell, but no thanks, that was really nasty--"

Holding up his hand, Frasier interrupted Buffy's flow. "Yes, yes, I quite agree, along with your refusal to try pharmaceuticals--"

"No!" This time it was Buffy's turn, as her abrupt refusal snapped off Frasier's remarks. The woman had stiffened in her chair, and began to jerkily shake her head, as she growled, "No drugs! I've had enough messing with my mind, with all the pills, potions, the NID's stuff, demon slime, and that damn Cruciamentum drug I had injected, forced down my throat, and otherwise jabbed into my body! Not ever again!"

"BUFFY!" The sudden bark at the top of Frasier's lungs suddenly brought her attention back to the doctor closely watching the blonde. Satisfied she was listening again, the man went on soothingly, "I totally agree with you, Buffy. Mind you, my opinion isn't just because I disapprove of the overindulgence by others in my profession in supplying too many drugs to supposedly cure their patient's ills. Or even the fact that it's unlikely that you could be helped in any serious way, since your body's Slayer abilities would fight off the influences of the medicines, unless they were dispensed in extremely high and possibly dangerous doses."

Despite her sense that Frasier was about to give her some bad news, Buffy was beginning to be pacified by her doctor's calm voice. She watched in silence as the man went on. "But, one odd thing about your days of depression that I should have paid more attention to, was in fact the very regularity of them. To my thinking, that comes of conscious control."

"What!" Buffy stared incredulously at Frasier. "You mean, I WANT to feel like I do?"

Frasier shook his head, correcting her, "Not want to. You need to." At Buffy's disbelieving expression, the doctor went on. "Buffy, you've been under immense mental stress for most of your life, and unless you released this stress in some way, you risked serious psychological damage to your mind. Venting and expressing your anger, sorrow, rage, and other erupting emotions in a safe manner is actually a good sign of a stable personality."

There was quiet in the office for several minutes, as Buffy once again thought it over, only to say in a dubious tone, "Are you telling me that a doctor says it's okay for me to be sick?"

"Not sick." Frasier's own voice was firm, as he held Buffy's gaze. "You've been treating yourself the only way you knew how. What you've been going about it the wrong way is in trying to hide it. You've been keeping this from your friends, correct?"

"Well, yeah," mumbled Buffy, looking a little ashamed. "I've been usually going out to a motel for the day and getting through it there."

"I think you should change that, Buffy." The doctor sternly stared at his patient. "From now on, during those specific days, stay in your own room and bed in the Cleveland Slayers House, where you feel safe and comfortable. Most important, tell your friends what's going on--" At Buffy's panicked look, Frasier hastily went on, "You don't have to be specific. Just tell them you're having a bad day, and you want to be left alone during that time. In fact, just call it a sick day. I think they'd accept that, don't you?"

"Um….yes. Considering all we've been through together, they might guess just why I'm behaving that way." Buffy stared off into the space over Frasier's head, and then she frowned, bringing her gaze back down to look into the doctor's eyes, to hesitantly say, "Is that…why I kind of feel so bad about it all, on those days? I love them, but I sometimes feel both guilty about getting them into this life, and also furious at them over what they've done to me."

Frasier faintly chuckled, and went on at Buffy's half-inquiring, half-offended look, "It's called being part of a family, Buffy. Knowing things about them and also knowing they know all too much about you….sometimes loving them more than anyone in the world, and then being totally unable to stand them…. In the end, be satisfied with knowing that your life would be empty and a lot poorer without them, Buffy." The man's eyes sparkled, as he clearly thought about his own family.

"Oookay," drawled Buffy, getting up to her feet, and reaching out to shake the hand of her doctor, who'd also arisen from his chair. Despite their session clearly being over, Buffy hesitated before turning to leave, looking at Frasier, and plaintively said, "This is just a start, right? It's not a cure, I know that. Just….a beginning on trying to get better."

Frasier Crane smiled at a young woman he deeply admired, and gently said, "The most difficult journeys never get less harder, at the beginning, the middle, and the end, to the goal. But then you've known that all your life, haven't you, Buffy?"

* * *

In her bed, sobbing and shaking from her memories, the young woman clung to what comfort she could from her recent session with her doctor.

Much later, the door to Buffy's room finally opened, and she walked out. Several baby Slayers who'd had the misfortune to be present at that exact occasion, passing by in the corridor of the former boarding school that had been retrofitted to the new Cleveland Slayers House, promptly flattened themselves against the walls, as the original Slayer drifted by, with this woman not paying the younger girls the slightest bit of attention.

Buffy was dressed all in black. Her black pants, black t-shirt, and black baseball cap pulled down over her face had this monochrome broken only by the pale vestiges of her features not hidden by the cap, and also her pure white bare feet pressing on the carpet of the house corridor.

By now, every other person living in the Slayers House knew what this meant, and how to behave when this happened. All of the baby Slayers stood frozen like statues until Buffy was well down the corridor, and then the girl furthest away from the California native moved again, darting to the side of the house away from Buffy, to where the other stairs were, and the young warrior woman sped down these steps to where she knew the Sunnydale survivor was headed, to pass the word that things should be made ready.

This meant that when Buffy went through the doors to the main kitchen and made her way to the breakfast nook in that room, the small table there had been cleared, her chair had been pulled away for her to sit, and there was a large mug of fresh Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee steaming away on the surface of the table.

Buffy sat down at the table, and picking up her coffee, she sipped at it, and all while staring blankly at the lush garden through the windows of the breakfast nook. This garden was now totally deserted, though various tools for weeding were lying on the ground where work had evidently been interrupted halfway through the task. Buffy kept watching through the windows, though nobody could have guessed from her face if she was paying attention to anything seen from the nook. She certainly wasn't showing any awareness of the other person sharing the kitchen with her, of his being busy at his work, and soon the delicious smells that were the consequence of this person's labor.

A few minutes later, Xander Harris walked over to the breakfast nook table and its occupant, his arms full. Depositing in front of Buffy a soup tureen the size of a baby's bath filled to the steaming brim with cream of tomato soup, with this tableware holding a large spoon whose other end disappeared into the scarlet liquid, Xander then also placed onto the table a large plate completely filled with English muffins toasted and then slathered with peanut butter.

Comfort food.

Xander didn't say a word to Buffy, but his features were worried, as he backed up, to lean against the kitchen wall, his arms folded across his chest, as he intently watched the woman he'd known since he was fifteen years old. Over the course of the meal, as Buffy slowly but surely began consuming every last crumb of her food, Xander's face began to lighten, as his mood improved. When Buffy was munching away at the final English muffin, the man headed for the industrial-size refrigerator, to open the freezer compartment and take something out of that appliance.

As she dipped the last bit of bread into the tiny puddle that was the remains of an entire bowl of soup, to pop this tidbit into her mouth, Buffy ignored the sounds of hammering that resounded throughout the kitchen.

After a few more moments of looking out at the garden, Buffy left her seat at the breakfast nook table, and walked towards the kitchen doors. She stopped in front of Xander standing by the doors, with this man hopefully holding in his arms an entire gallon of Ben & Jerry's Cherry Garcia ice cream, the lid removed, and this confection frozen to a rock-hardness that required a mallet being used to pound an enormous foot-long kitchen spoon into this to protrude from the top of the ice-cream container.

As Buffy took her dessert from Xander, her free hand lifted to brush a finger across his mouth, and then the Slayer left the kitchen, the doors swinging closed after her. Her expression had remained blank throughout all this, but this didn't dampen the spirits of a Scooby Gang member, considering what Buffy had actually done in showing her progress over her depression.

Xander licked his lips, and then he beamed at the unexpected gift from his Sunnydale comrade. As expected, Buffy had once again proved the theory that it was impossible to eat a toasted peanut-butter English muffin and not get a single trace of that delicious food paste on your fingers. This had just been mischievously deposited on his face.

His friend was getting better.

* * *

Much later in the afternoon, Buffy Summers bounced out of her room, dressed in a bright yellow sun dress, her eyes sparkling.

It was really a pity that nobody else was in the corridor at that time, since they could have spread the word that the absolute doom of the world was at hand.

Humming 'We Are The Champions' off-key as she skipped down the steps and then headed to the front of the house, Buffy eagerly looked around for someone to hang out with, to have fun during this absolutely glorious day. She felt so wonderful! Not that her feelings had to do with any overcompensating into a maniac state from her depression, or even the entire 100% butterfat gallon of ice cream she'd just devoured while happily suffering total brain-freeze, along with a stupendous sugar rush. No sirree! It was just a gosh-darn, perfectly fantastic day, and she needed to share her feelings with someone!

Hmm, there was Andrew at the front door foyer, looking at a piece of paper in his hand. Oh, well, he'd do.

"AAAAANNNNNDDDREWWW!!!!" caroled Buffy at the top of her lungs, a crazed grin on her face, as the House caretaker jerked his head up to stare with horror at the Slayer advancing towards him.

"Watcha doin'? Huh? Huh? Huh?" babbled Buffy, giving Andrew a friendly poke on his shoulder from her extended index finger that sent the young man slamming into the foyer wall. As Andrew reeled back, his hands opened, and Buffy dropped to her haunches with Slayer speed to snatch out of the air what he'd just dropped, and then she straightened up just as fast, bouncing at least a couple of feet off the floor.

Once she'd again landing back on her feet, Buffy was busily examining what she was holding. Car keys, and someone's….name?….on a piece of paper. Shooting her hands forward to wave her new possessions under Andrew's nose, Buffy chattered, "What's all this for, Andrew? Andy? Andi-kins? You got a nice name, you know that, fella?"

His mind about to shut down, a dazed Andrew Wells mumbled, "I was just going to pick up someone from the airport--"

"HEY!" Buffy whooped, hopping around the foyer in delight, as she tucked the piece of paper in a pocket of her sundress. "It's a wonderful day to drive! I'll pick what's-his-face from there! See ya, Andy!" There was now a yellow blur as Buffy rushed to the door, the gleam of sunlight as the panel was thrust open and the Slayer sped through the entranceway, and then darkness again accompanied by a thunderous BANG! as the door slammed shut hard enough to shake the entire front of the Slayers House.

A furious Xander stepped through the kitchen doors a moment later, bellowing, "I TOLD YOU NOT TO SLAM….Andrew? Did you do that?"

Weaving on his feet in the middle of the hallway, Andrew weakly said, "It was Buffy….she took the car keys and left…"

"WHAT?!" Xander rushed down the foyer, knocking Andrew out of the way into the wall again, and shoved open the front door. Noises of screeching tires and the squealing of a hand brake still on rushed into the house, following by the sounds of an ear-splitting scrape of a minor/major collision with a gate post, and the happy yell of a Slayer clearly not in her right mind.

Turning away from the still-open doorway, Xander glared at Andrew rubbing his new hurts and snarled, "You idiot! You should have stopped her!"

Andrew gave the other man a look of total disbelief, and retorted, "She's Buffy Summers, the Slayer! How the hell was I supposed to do that?!"

"Drop to your knees, wrap your arms around her ankles, and blubber like a baby!" coldly snapped Xander.

Andrew crowded up against the other man with an eyepatch, his irritation overcoming his usual deference towards the White Knight, to shout into his face, "If I'd done that, she'd have stomped me like a bug!"

Xander shrugged, "So, no downside." Ignoring Andrew's offended glare, Xander turned to the open doorway again, to glumly contemplate the total chaos that was now out among the region's streets and highways. Buffy had always been a bad driver since she'd been the Slayer, and today she wasn't going to be cured of ignoring all the rules of the road. Xander sighed, and confided to a sulking Andrew at his side.

"This isn't going to end well."

* * *

A day later, Buffy stood in front of the doors leading to the main conference room of the Cleveland Slayers House, trying to stop the butterflies in her stomach from doing aerial loops and rolls. As she closed her eyes and sighed at what was coming next, a presence made itself known to her Slayer sense, accompanied by a Boston-accented voice that had an actual smirk in it as it snickered throughout the vestibule.

"So, are we gonna have fun like yesterday, B?"

Keeping her eyes firmly shut, Buffy groaned, "Just when I thought things couldn't get worse…" Buffy now opened her eyes to turn halfway and glower at the beautiful brunette woman standing a few feet away and grinning at her. Grumbling, Buffy muttered, "I thought you weren't coming back yet."

Faith chortled, "Are ya kiddin'? I woulda come outta my grave, less my road trip, to be here for this!" The dark Slayer's eyes brightened, as she edged closer, to eagerly ask, "Did ya actually kill the guy you was drivin' back from the airport?"

Buffy snapped, "How would I know?! I'm not a doctor! But there's no way he could have really had a heart attack. He must have just fainted, because he was fine even after I hit the tree in front to stop, jumping out of the car and running away, while yelling over his shoulder some weird stuff." She glared at Faith now having hysterics.

"What…what weird stuff?" gasped Faith after a few moments of getting herself under control.

The blonde woman just rolled her eyes in exasperation and shrugged. "Just something about owing Duncan no favor big enough for this, even if it had kept his head, and he needed all the beer in the world to forget this. AND me." Buffy's fingers clenched into fists as Faith went into another paroxysm of laughter.

Finally, the other Slayer wiped away tears of mirth from her face, and chuckling, Faith nodded at the doors of the conference room. "Let's go, B. It's time to see how bad ya peed in their breakfast cereal."

"Wow, Faith. Those deportment lessons Andrew got you for Christmas are really paying off," snarked Buffy, who nevertheless glumly stepped towards the doors into the conference room where Giles, Willow, and Dawn were waiting for the culprit who'd frightened away a renowned translator who'd only agreed, with the utmost reluctance, to examine some of the oldest documents the Council possessed, written in ancient and esoteric languages that nobody else in the entire world could read.

As Buffy opened the door, she had one last thought in her defense.

*I still don't think anybody named after a mint and fruit-flavored candy was really THAT important.*


	2. Chapter 2

A couple of weeks later, Buffy pouted in the back seat of the taxi. Even sensing that the end of her journey was near, the woman still continued her mental complaints to herself.

*A racing school?? Okay, okay, maybe they had a right to be the teeniest bit upset with me, but how come they had to send me here? It's not like I'm totally obsessed with cars like some of the boys in Hemery and SHS. Those guys would have drooled into their car magazines they carried with them everywhere at the prospect of coming here.*

Buffy glowered out of the windows at the bare desert slipping by as the taxi went down the road, from her motel to her destination. The racing school was located in the Mojave Desert of California, with the nearest city being Palmdale, where she was staying. Fairly cheap, flat land, with no neighbors, good year-round weather, and nobody to care about what noise was made were all the reasons why Buffy had to fly all the way from Cleveland to the West Coast. There had been some mention about the reputation of the racing school and its founder, but the Slayer had ignored all that in frantically trying to come up with some reason to avoid being sent here.

In the taxi, Buffy shuddered, as she remembered being informed of the alternatives. A snappish Dawn had told her big sister that if Buffy didn't want to go, she could stay at Cleveland to be reassigned for other duties. With utter precision, as the older Summers woman had brightened at this prospect, Dawn had slipped in the knife as she icily informed Buffy that Andrew -- who'd also been yelled at -- was quite willing for her assistance in helping him to file five hundred years of utterly-boring Watcher documents that nobody had even glanced at for the last couple of centuries and were buried under inch-thick dust in their warehouse-sized storage room at an ancient castle way, way to the north of Scotland. North, as in freezing-your-kilt-off-north.

The job itself was estimated to take, oh, about a couple of months lasting to the middle of winter of looking at documents goose-quill-penned in atrocious handwriting in the hopes of finding something interesting in several tons of rotting paper, despite the fact that the First Evil hadn't even bothered to show up at that place during its terrorist campaign that had destroyed the previous Council and that organization's main records.

There was only one answer Buffy could make to this.

"Can I at least fly business class to California?"

Stepping out of the halted cab in the front of the racing school, into a hot desert day and bright sunlight, Buffy winced and pulled down her sunglasses from the top of her head down to her nose. She then perked up a little, admitting to herself, *Hey, California girl, you're back home. Yeah, it's not your birthplace or the-town-that-shall-not-be-spoken-of, but even the high desert northeast of LA is part of you.* At these thoughts, Buffy became more cheerful, beginning to plot to herself.

*I promised the others I'd come here and go through whatever I'm supposed to, but it doesn't mean I have to spend every second here. Let's see, I show up, drive those little toys around that circle thingy a few times, and then complain to the big boss about a headache and bat my eyes at him. If that doesn't work, I become Bitch Buffy. Either way, he signs the certificate saying I passed, and I'm out of here. Just like gym in high school, really.*

Buffy smirked, and continued in her head. *After that, I have a few days until I have to get back to Cleveland and its weather. Maybe find a nice spa here, with hot and cold running cabana boys, go through a complete cleansing, facial, mud packs -- what the heck, everything! You deserve a little pampering, girl.*

Her good mood continued through the next hour or so, only lessening with her going through lots of paperwork that she uncaringly signed, these basically saying that the racing school would not be responsible from anything bad happening to her, from acquiring a hangnail to actual decapitation. Finally, she and a couple of others also going through the racing program were led out to the racetrack, where they just stood around for a few minutes.

Buffy ignored the curious looks from the others, all of them guys (of course), who when she glanced over bore identical slightly outraged expressions of little boys having to suffer the entrance of cooties-covered girls into their own private, he-man, women-haters, Little Rascals clubhouse. The woman firmly told herself she was a mature, grown-up member of the feminine species, and that, moreover, it wouldn't be polite for her to stick out her tongue at them all.

Shifting impatiently, Buffy suddenly winced at the abrupt roar of a nearby motor vehicle's engine that painfully battered at her ears. She quickly fumbled at her neck for something Willow had made for her and all of the other Slayers soon after Sunnydale. Pulling out a small medallion hanging from a chain around her neck, Buffy pinched this several times, her fingertips pressing against the sides of the little disk.

The overpowering noise suddenly faded out of existence, with Buffy sighing in relief. While the heightened senses of a Slayer were necessary to deal with their vampire and demonic prey, there were times in the warrior women's lives when having extremely sensitive sight, hearing, and smelling was an actual curse. For example, being stuck in a plane with a colicky baby with diarrhea in the next seat row over. Willow had been informed then by a foul-mouthed Slayer from the place that for decades had suffered from the curse of the Bambino, that if Faith ever had to go through that again, the brunette was actually going to plot the extirpation of the entire human race. Or at least those under the age of two.

The red-haired Wiccan had hastily come up with something in the form of little metal disks worn on a chain around the neck, or if the Slayers preferred, anywhere else on their body. All it took was for these women to press these disks several times for unpleasant smells or sounds to be magically cancelled out for them, for about an hour or so. Willow had refused to make this action permanent, pointing out that the Slayers could just do this again if needed, and that in the future, it might be necessary to endure the annoying assaults on their senses, for whatever reason. Plus, other sounds and smells not actually bothering the Slayers would be allowed to pass through the spell cast by the medallion, so the women could hear someone speak even during an explosion in a fireworks factory.

In the racetrack, Buffy shrugged. She didn't plan to be staying here all that long to touch the medallion again to cause the sound to disappear. Her thoughts were abruptly distracted by the sudden appearance of a fantastic machine that had materialized in front of the group, being driven with blazing speed from the far end of the racetrack to skiddingly stop on that section by the people waiting there.

All of the guys promptly clapped their hands over their ears, only then followed by Buffy as she realized that not doing so might make people suspicious. Still, even though she couldn't hear the overpowering noise that she was sure was coming from the stopped machine, she could feel it. The rumbling through the air and also through the ground itself that shivered her feet and moved up her body, finished its journey at her open mouth, making her teeth vibrate as the Slayer gaped at the strangest motor vehicle she'd ever seen.

Big, fat, cartoon-style exposed wheels were attached to the rest of the car by delicate rods and struts. The body of the car itself was pure speed itself frozen in metal, from the pointed nose, with jutting wings on the sides of this, leading back to a narrow driver's section, continuing to the engine compartment, which was overhung by another, more massive wing.

The driver of this incredible car turned his head in his helmet to look at the group. An instant later, the rumble running through Buffy's body vanished, as the engine of the car was evidently turned off. The others of their group now took their hands away from their ears, as did Buffy, with the woman watching in fascination as the driver got out of the car, pushing against the tops of the side of the body structure and stepping onto the racetrack, in a smooth, well-practiced motion that spoke of long experience. Buffy now had a specific reaction to this and everything else that had suddenly been revealed to her of a male in superb physical condition:

*YUMMY!*

The tall man in his skin-tight racing costume now came towards the group in long strides, with his hands reaching up to remove his helmet on the way. As the man stopped in front of the group, he finished taking off his helmet and looked at everyone with his revealed face.

Buffy actually went weak at the knees at that exact moment.

For some reason, the rest of the guys in their group had the same reaction, though in a more manly fashion, with one of them choking out, "Michel Vaillant! OH MY GOD!" Buffy was in too much of a daze to wonder why they were so excited.

The extremely handsome man with a totally sexy strand of black hair falling over his forehead who was standing before them had mild amusement pass over his features, until he nodded politely at them all, and uttered a greeting, "Bonjour, messieurs." The man now looked at Buffy, and respectfully said in the most masculine voice she'd ever heard, "Mademoiselle."

At that moment, Buffy was desperately hoping the next words out of the mouth of this dream man was, "Shall we retire to my chambers to populate the earth with our children?" Unfortunately, this didn't come to pass (it never does), as the man instead gracefully waved his left hand at the car behind him and keeping his gaze in Buffy's direction, he inquired, "Are you ready for your first lesson?"

Buffy just gaped at the man, her feelings of joyful shock at who would presumably be teaching her to drive that incredible machine intermixing with her crushing disappointment at what she'd just noticed when the race car driver had pointed at his car. The it's-not-fair-dammit-why-him man had on his ring finger a golden wedding ring.

Staying frozen long enough for the man to look concerned, Buffy finally mumbled, "Uh, yeah. I guess." Her face turned red at hearing her own awkward words, and also how the man kindly smiled at her.

Mr. Married-Dreamboat then nodded at a small building by the racetrack and told Buffy, "Your clothing is ready for you in the changing room, Mademoiselle. It is only polite for you to be the first, and then we can get started." He then looked expectantly at Buffy, who hesitated, and then the woman turned and headed for the building, marveling on how quickly her mood had improved over being forced to come here.

In the building, which was indeed a place to change attire, Buffy found on a table a stack of neatly folded racing apparel, including boots and gloves, that was evidently supposed to be her costume, as indicated by the small piece of paper with her name of 'Elizabeth Summers' on top of the stack. Buffy quickly changed to her new clothes, her eyebrows rising at how it all perfectly fitted her, and she put away her old clothes in a locker provided for such tasks. Buffy uncertainly eyed the full helmet that had also been placed on the table next to her racing costume, and picked it up. Apparently, she was supposed to wear that. She then left the changing room, brushing past the others of her group that were waiting outside for her to leave, and walked to where that scrumptious Frenchman was watching her approach.

As she stopped in front of the man, Buffy gave him her most brilliant smile, and asked, "Say, how'd you know my clothes size? I don't think you have all that many women coming here, anyway."

The man smiled back a little puzzedly, causing shivers to run down Buffy's spine, and answered, "In your application, your sizes were given. It is also true that we have more hommes than femmes wishing to learn how to race, though that is changing with Mademoiselle Patrick's entrée into professional racing."

Buffy said blankly, "Who?"

"Danica Patrick, your countrywoman."

The woman stared at the tall man in utter disbelief. "You mean, the little girl from the Wonder Years? Wow, I've got to pay more attention to what the baby S--, my students, are saying in class."

Now it was Michel Vaillant's turn to stare in absolute bewilderment at the small woman before him. Shaking his head to bring his thoughts back to his duty, the man cleared his throat, and motioned to the racecar that was waiting for them. "Shall we begin?"

"Okay," cheerfully said Buffy, walking over to where the man indicated. She interestedly noted the second open seat in the body of the car directly behind the driver, and giving the man her helmet, she carefully stepped into this seat and sat down, and Buffy then allowed the man now crouching down beside her to gently place the helmet over her head. The Slayer felt a thrill inside her as the man looked directly in her eyes and his inquiring look silently asked if the helmet was comfortable. Buffy nodded, the unfamiliar added weight of the helmet dragging her head down further than usual.

Satisfied, the man began to buckle her into the seat, pulling down half a seat belt from over her shoulders, and then reaching down between her legs to lift up the other half of the seat belt from the floor. Both halves were connected with a buckle directly in the middle of her chest, and the man then pulled the end of the belt straps to make sure the belt was holding her snugly.

Buffy had enjoyed every moment of this man fussing over her, and her pleasure only increased as the man still in his crouching position reached into his own seat to pick up his helmet. As the man straightened up, standing at the side of the racecar to put on his helmet, Buffy was given the chance of staring at close range at a truly magnificent male butt.

*Yippieeee!* Buffy silently cheered.

As the man expertly slipped into his own seat, Buffy had to wait only a few seconds for him to put on his own seatbelt, and then as the man's arms dipped back into the cockpit, the car's engine came on.

The medallion was still working, preventing the roar of the engine from battering her ears, though the helmet's soundproofing and the earplugs provided with her racing costume would have also done this, though not as well. Once again, Buffy could directly feel the pulsing sound, but now that she was actually inside the car, the vibrating of every bit of her body was even more intense. All of her organs were actually shivering, with her eyeballs jiggling in the strangest sensation she'd ever experienced.

Buffy was abruptly distracted from how she felt when the man sitting in front lifted up his right hand, holding an extended index finger in a gesture of warning. This finger was now jabbed horizontally forward, and the next moment, the car shot down the racetrack.

The woman in the rear of the racecar was slammed back in her seat, and continued being held there, as the engine's rumble massively increased as more power was demanded, and Buffy now actually felt all her facial muscles and skin being pushed back by g-forces and windblast. As the car went even faster down the racetrack, the view of the land at the car's sides now blurred, with buildings, fences and other objects changing into undistinguishable streaks of bits and pieces.

Buffy Summers, the Vampire Slayer, warrior woman, defender of humanity, whose life had brought her all too much sadness and sorrow, now shrieked with glee at the top of her lungs in absolute and unlimited joy.

A few minutes later, after the car returned to the point of the racetrack where it had started, coming to another skidding stop, a small feminine figure erupted from the vehicle's passenger seat, to land on her feet by the car and started skipping and dancing in pure ecstasy around the machine, tearing off her helmet during her gyrations. As the driver got out of his own seat, to stand by the car and remove his helmet, the smaller figure rushed right at him, to stand face-to-face, as Buffy babbled, "Can we do that again, please, please, please?! Can we? Please, can we?"

Michel Vaillant looked down into the eagerly begging features of the excited woman and let a wide grin appear on his own face. This was exactly why he sometimes showed up at his racing school without warning, to show a novice to racing how wonderful sheer speed could be.

Chuckling, the Frenchman said, "I regret that the others must have their turn first," as he waved at a position of the track where several racecars were rumbling away, clearly carrying the other members of the group learning about racing.

Buffy's face went into full-pout in a millisecond, and then became more cheerful as Vaillant went on, "We will go again, soon. But for now, we shall look at what you will be driving later on. Come, let us see your vehicle, and you will learn all about it."

As the man turned to walk to another building at the racetrack, Buffy was quickly at his side, occasionally letting out her exuberance in an happy skip. As they went along, the woman managed to find a moment to discreetly check her costume, relieved to find that she hadn't totally embarrassed herself, no matter how her lower half felt. As Faith would have crudely expressed it, "Ya mighta not have come, but ya had….leakage."

Buffy grinned widely into thin air, amused about her excessive high spirits. It didn't matter, she'd just had a perfectly thrilling time, and she was looking forward to more driving. Even if she didn't actually think she could sneak out that racecar back to her motel bedroom. For one, the maids would probably protest about the motor oil on the bedsheets.


	3. Chapter 3

In the last light of day, Michel Vaillant held the binoculars to his eyes at his position in the observation tower that had a view of the entire racetrack. At that specific moment, there was only one vehicle on the course, a Formula One racer that was zipping around the oval track at extremely high speed, eagerly trying to do as much driving as possible before night fell and the course closed. Keenly watching everything the driver of that car was doing -- maintaining control of the racer, staying in the right position in the turns to get in the exact spot to rip down the straightway at full speed, and everything else that showed the driver was skillfully applying all they'd learned over an astonishingly short period of time.

Michel seemingly paid no attention to the person coming up behind him, instead keeping his attention on the car now zooming past the observation tower. He didn't even react to the arms coming around him, and a chin perching on his shoulder, as an extremely amused feminine voice spoke into his ear.

"So, how is she doing?"

Still holding the binoculars to his eyes and tracking the racer going down the straightway again, Michel absently replied, "She broke the course record again five minutes ago. Which she had set an hour before that. After breaking the record she'd set three hours ago, right after your lunch."

A happy giggle tickled his ear, and Michel finally put down his binoculars, to turn his head and look into the mischievous face of his wife, Françoise, as the woman chortled, "Has she broken YOUR record yet?"

"No," sternly said Michel. His face shifted to incredulity, as he mentally replayed her question, and repeated, a little offended, "Yet?!"

His wife let go of her embrace of him, taking a step back to fold her arms across her chest, and she smirked, "Why else would you be here keeping such a close watch on her?"

Michel just rolled his eyes, and then he shook his head in sheer disbelief. "Mon Dieu, she seems to be getting better on every turn!"

Now it was Françoise's turn to look surprised. "She is really that good?"

Shrugging, Michel answered, "Why else would I call in the famille? I need to test her."

Françoise smiled. "It'll be good to see them all again, though every one of them will be curious about being taken from their work."

"About that," thoughtfully spoke Michel. "What were you able to find out about her during the déjeuner?"

The woman now frowned, trying to condense all her judgment about Elizabeth Summers that she had developed during their meal together earlier today. Slowly speaking, Françoise said, "That one, despite her youth -- she is deep, deep. I sensed many secrets, not all of them good, but she has not been destroyed by them. Non, her life has had great sadness in it, but she will fight through it. I like her, Michel, and I think she can be trusted."

The man smiled at the woman he knew he was the most fortunate person on earth to be married to, and firmly nodded his head, respecting her judgment. As he stepped forward to put his arm around Françoise and led her off the tower, Michel mused, "We shall certainly see tomorrow, mon amour."

On the racetrack below, Buffy's whole attention was concentrated on finishing one last lap before she was forced to pull in. Glorying in the speed, she ignored her recent memories.

* * *

Yesterday night:

In her motel bedroom, where numerous racing books, car and driver magazines, and technical manuals were now scattered all over the floor, the drawer top, and her bed, where Buffy was now lying on her stomach and flipping through with utter fascination a biography of Michel Vaillant. Of all the taxi-load of reading material she'd lugged from the racing school, she found this book the most interesting. Now she knew why the others of her racing school group were so awed by the man who'd given her one of the biggest thrills of her life.

Michel Vaillant had been a race car driver for decades, and during that time, he'd shown himself to be among the rarest persons in sports, someone who not just set records, but manifested the game or activity itself by their ability to go past limits, to achieve the impossible. Gretzky, Jordan, Comaneci, Woods….Vaillant was among their company.

Buffy sighed, as she admired the wedding picture of Vaillant and a beautiful Françoise Latour in the biography, her envy of two handsome people on the happiest day of their lives suddenly interrupted by the ringing of the room phone.

Her eyes still on the photograph, Buffy absently reached out, only to have her fingers knock over the picture book of Vaillant's many victories lying on top of the phone. This also shoved off the handset of the phone, so that it dropped to the floor and bounced, the clatter of this traveling thousands of miles to Cleveland, where Xander yanked away his own handset from his ear, wincing.

Just as he returned the handset to his head, Xander heard an irritated "What?!" in an extremely familiar voice, as Buffy expressed her annoyance at her rare clumsiness and also at being interrupted at reading about something she had never thought would be all that interesting to her.

A nervous look suddenly appeared on Xander's features, as he cleared his throat, and said gruffly, "Hey, Buff. How's things going there?" As he waited for her answer, Xander silently prayed that her evident bad mood wasn't because of her basically being ordered by her family to take driving lessons in a place that probably didn't have a single shoe store for a hundred miles around.

Buffy, who'd finally grabbed the handset off the floor, fell on her back in the bed with the telephone receiver against her own ear. Opening her mouth, the Slayer hesitated on what exactly to say. For some reason, telling anyone about the glorious time she'd had today seemed like giving away a secret. It was more of a private experience, to be lovingly remembered and not casually shared. With that in mind, Buffy delivered her answer somewhat offhandedly, in a flat monotone voice most unlike her.

"Oh, hi, Xander. Uh, things are…okay."

Back in Cleveland, hearing such a careless answer, Xander took away the handset from his ear, holding it in front of his face to stare at it with puzzlement and growing alarm. Bringing back the speaker to his mouth, Xander tried again, his own casual tone concealing his new worry. "That's great. So….you've been to that place? Everything went….fine?" Xander's voice actually squeaked when he delivered the last word of that latter sentence.

Now it was Buffy's turn to stare at her own handset in bewilderment. Shrugging in her bed, Buffy put the phone back by her ear and absentmindedly picked up one of the car magazines at her side that had on the front cover a speeding car just like the one she'd driven today -- all by herself! -- that she now knew was a Formula One vehicle. Becoming engrossed in the image of a magnificent machine, Buffy actually forgot she was in the middle of a phone call, until a frantic voice started calling her name.

"Hey, Buffy? Buffy? Buffster? You there? What's going on, dammit!"

Blinking in shock at her inattention, Buffy quickly replied, though with unintended irritation also expressed in her voice, "Hey, Xander, you don't have to yell. Like I said, everything's okay. Just like it'll be for the next….couple of days." Buffy's pause had been to savor the fact she had the chance of a lot more fun in driving those wonderful cars at the racetrack during the rest of the week.

Xander, on the other hand, was becoming just the slightest bit terrified. To him, Buffy was sounding like somebody with a serious grudge and who had time to brood about it, plus the pause itself was a dark warning of doom. Trying to keep a whimper from escaping from this throat, Xander choked out, "That's fine, just fine. Um. You know we all love you, right? We want just the best for you, okay?"

Now really confused, Buffy kept quiet for a few moments, trying to understand one of the weirdest phone calls she'd ever received. Clearing her throat, the young woman tried to express her feelings, "Yeah, I got that. Look, tell them….I'm thinking of them all. You too, Xander." Buffy managed a chuckle at that, hoping she'd convinced her caller of her sincerity.

Actually, to Xander, Buffy was sincere about the revenge she was going to take on every one of them. Especially him. That chuckle had been totally bloodthirsty. As goosebumps rose over every inch of his body, Xander heard Buffy say with evil glee, "I'll make sure to bring back something special for everyone, and you won't be forgotten either, Xan. Well, goodnight. Sleep tight. Bye."

As Buffy put down the phone on the hook after her happy farewell, she beamed at the catalog given to her by the racing school, which included souvenirs that could be purchased by the persons going through their racing programs. *That leather jacket with the logo on the back will be perfect for Xander's birthday!*

Back in Cleveland, a handset slipped out of the nerveless fingers of a man with a fear-paled face, to dangle to the floor from its cord. Xander stood motionless by the phone, staring blankly at the wall, until someone came by in the corridor, casually asking, "Hey, stud, ya ready to go on patrol?"

Xander whirled around, to fling his arms around Faith and drop his head on top of her shoulder, as he moaned, "DOOMED! We're all doomed!"

Faith froze, not sure if she should kick the ass of the man clinging to her, or if this was some kind of permission from Xander for her to drag him to the nearest private room and tear his clothes off to get her hands on that exact same toned part of his body. The babbling of the man into her ear of, "Rattlesnakes -- alkali water -- cactus -- Gila monsters --" didn't exactly help her reach a decision.

Conscious of the several baby Slayers and trainee Watchers sharing the corridor with them and staring in shock at the pair, Faith settled for tentatively patting the back of the sobbing man, and hissing at him, "Will ya snap outta it? Ya ain't 'zactly doin' wonders for morale!"

* * *

Back on the racetrack, as her car rushed around the track, Buffy groaned under her breath, as a voice crackled into her ears from the helmet speakers. "Attention, Ms. Summers. We are closing the course. You will have to finish your circuit and then pull in."

Sighing, Buffy spoke into the microphone attached to the inside front of the helmet. "Okay, I got that. I'm coming in now." The Slayer considered one last burst of full speed, but even though she could see quite well in the fading light due to her heightened senses, if people were watching her now, they would certainly wonder how she could effortlessly drive in the coming darkness. Reluctantly, she began slowing down in preparing for her wonderful day to finally end.

It had certainly been memorable, including the middle part of it, when she'd been invited to lunch.

* * *

"With WHO?!"

In the workshop, Buffy's voice rose in shock over that last word, as she stared at the amused receptionist for the racing school, who repeated the name.

"Françoise Vaillant. She's the wife of the owner and founder of this place."

Buffy bounced up from the floor, from where she'd been kneeling to watch every move of the mechanic working on the car she'd been driving all that morning, until a minor engine problem had forced it off the course. She frantically brushed at her knees, though there were no dirt marks or stains there. Unlike what she'd been expecting of a dirty and oily place, the entire workshop down to the floor was as clean and sterile as a hospital operating room, including the mechanic himself dressed in a spotless jumpsuit and using gleaming bright tools.

As he'd commenced repairing her car, the mechanic, as French as Michel Vaillant himself, and called Alain, understood her surprise about the pristine condition of the workshop. Working away, Alain had amiably pointed out he labored every day on race cars and their equipment, all of it worth several hundred thousand dollars each, and his site needed to be in proper order and cleanliness to best accomplish his job.

The workshop might be tidy and clean, but Buffy knew she certainly wasn't. Sitting in a racecar the entire morning surrounded by both the scorching heat of an engine producing immense horsepower and the sweltering warmth of a desert morning had caused her to sweat through her racing costume. She'd drunk gallons of water at every pit stop and taken salt tablets to replace what she'd sweated away.

Moreover, she'd continuously worn her helmet all today so far, and that must have had severe consequences to her hairstyle. Buffy closed her eyes and moaned, lifting her hands and patting at her disheveled hair. So far, she hadn't seen herself in a mirror, but she knew she must look a fright.

The receptionist, a pretty older woman just as American as Buffy was, kindly said, "Miss, the lunch isn't for an hour yet. I've called a taxi for you, and told it to take you back to your motel, and then wait for you for the return trip. I'm sure you can get ready for the lunch here in time."

"Bless you!" called Buffy over her shoulder, sprinting out of the workshop to the changing room to get out of her racing costume.

Chuckling, the receptionist looked down at Alain sliding out from under the racecar in his mechanic's creeper and smiling up at her. "It is always a pleasure to have a beautiful woman watching your every move. Though, I fear her affection is for this and not moi." At the end of that sentence, Alain patted the side of the racecar and got to his feet.

"That's because that car isn't a total letch, Alain," dryly said the receptionist, who then turned to leave the workshop, sauntering away with the smug walk of someone who knows her every step is being admiringly watched.

Now alone in the workshop, Alain cleaned his hands and put away his tools, smiling all the while, and then he stepped over to the car of la femme blonde to give it one last inspection. His gaze intently passed over the entire vehicle, expecting to see no problems. However, he did catch sight of something else that made his jaw drop open in sheer astonishment.

Standing by the driver's position, Alain bent down to peer at the steering wheel. In the normal course of affairs, this small piece of vehicle equipment should have been a perfect circle of metal for the driver to grip while controlling the racecar. Instead, it was now bent into an oval.

Alain straightened up and bewilderedly scratched his head. He knew quite well this car hadn't ever been in a crash, to squash and smash its parts from their previous forms. Yet, how else could immense pressure have been put on that steering wheel to crush it into its new shape?

* * *

Buffy was won over by Françoise Vaillant the instant that woman complimented her shoes. Those footwear was the best of the Slayer's outfit, since she hadn't really expected to go anywhere formal on her trip here, and she'd packed only casual clothes. Still, a quick hair and makeup job, an adequate blouse and skirt, and a really fine pair of Ferragamos were thankfully enough for the lunch.

As they ate together, both women happily chattered away, comparing Rome experiences. Françoise (she'd firmly told the Slayer at once to call her that) now gave Elizabeth (there was no possible way she was ever going to use 'Buffy' at this table) tips on the best places to shop in Paris for bargains.

As the meal went on, Elizabeth found herself having a wonderful time. It had been so long since she'd talked to a more mature woman who was confident about her position in life and could discuss this with a younger woman. The Slayer didn't even mind ever-increasing personal questions about herself, and good-naturedly repeated her cover story about being a martial arts trainer specializing in teaching self-defense courses for the scholarship girls attending a multi-national educational facility.

Françoise thoroughly approved. She told the younger woman stories about her journalism experiences, which led to more stories about the Frenchwoman's entry into the world of racing.

At then, Elizabeth was confident enough to sheepishly confess her reason for being at the racing school, how her friends had become fed up with her atrocious driving habits and had paid for her to come here in the hopes of improving her driving skills. Françoise had roared with laughter at this, yet Elizabeth hadn't been offended, particularly when the Frenchwoman had wiped away her tears of mirth, and confided that this also happened among some professional racecar drivers.

"THEY'RE bad drivers? But, but, I thought they were supposed to be good at it!" Elizabeth had stared in shock at the older woman.

"Ah, non," said Françoise, sardonically waving a finger at Elizabeth over the table in the small dining room overlooking the racetrack. "Yes, they are fine on the world's courses, but when they come into the real world to drive there, they become incredibly frustrated. They cannot drive as fast as they like, they must obey the rules of the road, and they have to suffer the other drivers of all ages and experience. It does not improve their own behavior in the least. It can actually be injurious to their health, with high blood pressure and grinding their teeth. In the most severe cases, they must turn over the wheel to someone else, to be chauffeured around. Usually by their wives."

Elizabeth giggled at that, and then the young woman shot the other a mischievous look. Hopefully, in each other's good mood, this question could be risked. "So, how's your husband as a public road driver?"

"Oh, Michel! He's a most good driver." Françoise firmly nodded, and then she gave Elizabeth a sly glance. "But I have learned to never speak to him when he is driving on the routes."

Both of the women whooped in shared hilarity at this. As Elizabeth finished her chuckles, she stared into the beaming face of someone she liked very much. Without meaning to, she blurted out to Françoise a much more serious question that had been bothering the Slayer for a while.

"How do you deal….with what he does?"

The Frenchwoman's features sobered into a faint frown that momentarily made Elizabeth feel she'd gone too far. Seeing this, Françoise let her face become calm, as she understood her questioner truly needed an answer for this, perhaps due to the girl's own life experiences, that even if not fully revealed and described, these had indeed made the older woman sense they had been….momentous.

Steadily speaking, Françoise said, "I knew from the start of my time with Michel, that at any moment, I could ask him to leave racing….and he would do it, without a pause. But, I also knew -- and still do -- that I would never ask."

Looking away from Elizabeth's wondering face, Françoise stared blankly out of the window of the dining room onto the raceway, where metal vehicles were rushing around at speeds that could tear fragile flesh into shreds in a savage crash, no matter how much this same flesh was loved.

Françoise looked back at the uncomfortable younger woman, and went on. "Racing is what he does, what -- who he is. To make Michel give it up, just because I love him, that would turn him into someone who isn't Michel. And what's worse, he would still love me anyway, despite what I did to him."

Actual tears appeared in Elizabeth's eyes at that, as Françoise continued. "I am, ah, not content -- rather, accepting -- of the bargain I made then and still am making. That I can live with no fear and no Michel, or live with fear and with Michel."

At these last words, Françoise picked up the napkin by her plate and handed it to Elizabeth, who used it to wipe away her trickling tears. There was quiet in the room for a few minutes then, until emotions finally came under control. Staring down at her own plate, Elizabeth wretchedly said, "I….never found anyone who'd do that."

Knowing there was reason for that statement, if not the specifics, Françoise leaned over to tightly grasp Elizabeth's hand still clutching her damp napkin, and as the startled face of the young woman came up, the Frenchwoman said fiercely, "Yet. Pourtant. You must always keep that in mind, to add that to what you just said. That they were blind to what you had to offer, or even if they knew the price for this and refused, it does not mean that none shall come along ever, to willingly make the accord. Please, Elizabeth, believe that."

After saying that, Françoise got out of her chair, as did Elizabeth unconsciously, to be pulled by the older woman's firm grip as they stepped over to the window. Now finally letting go, Françoise waved at the busy racetrack below, and she managed a faint smile. "Enough. I most enjoyed our lunch together, Elizabeth. Now, it's time for you to join Michel in his world. He told me that he will drive there with you in his own vehicle this afternoon, to show you how to deal with other racecars on the course."

The Slayer could only boggle at Françoise at these words. She'd just been given a chance akin to, um, Buffy wasn't all that big on sports comparisons, but in her own world, it would be like actually able to spar with Xena, duel with Inigo Montoya, and go head-to-head against Wonder Woman. Being taught and competing against not the best in the world, but the very best, ever.

Françoise was actually able to chortle at the dazed look now on her companion's face, chuckling, "Enjoy."


	4. Chapter 4

Buffy Summers nervously fiddled with her racing helmet while waiting in the changing room. Anyone else showing off their trepidation would have just turned the protective headgear over and over, but then, Buffy had never been just 'anyone else' since her fifteenth birthday. At that moment, the small blonde woman was snapping her palm upwards hard enough to give enough of an impetus to the helmet for it to bounce straight up in the air, rising to an exact fraction of an inch from the ceiling, and then descending to be unerringly caught by Buffy's outstretched hand, and repeating this numerous times, all without even looking.

What else was currently absorbing the Slayer's attention involved something taking place outside the room, on the racetrack proper. Through her heightened senses, Buffy had both heard and felt the earlier rumble of Formula One racing cars going around the track, as her fellow driving trainees had made their final runs of the teaching program, showing they'd learned their lessons on how to drive those speedy vehicles, graduating with honors and receiving an ornate certificate personally signed by Michel Vaillant himself congratulating them for their achievement.

So, why hadn't she been out there with them in her own race car?

Buffy's face now had a rather unusual expression upon it, combining both puzzlement and a good pout. All she knew was that Françoise had escorted her to the changing room and left the younger woman inside, firmly telling Elizabeth to remain there until the Frenchwoman came back. In a stern tone she hadn't heard for years, not since her mother had passed away, Elizabeth had been commanded to remain there, to not spoil the surprise, and that Françoise would be most disappointed if her new friend dared to even poke her nose outside.

A reluctant half-smile curled the left corner of Buffy's mouth. She'd have to remember in the future how to exactly imitate Madame Vaillant's crisp voice of absolute authority. It would have certainly caused any misbehaving baby Slayer to instantly and grovelingly obey. Heck, it might even work on Dawn!

Giggling, Buffy caught her helmet once, more, but instead of sending it back upwards again, she reached out to place it on the top of the table she was sitting next to in her racing outfit. Brushing back her hair with her gloved hands in preparation for when she'd finally put on that headgear, Buffy froze in mid-stroke, her head tilting at a new sound coming from outside. Another Formula Once racecar had stopped out on the track, right next to the changing room. Its' still-running motor sent out rumbles for a few seconds, with both the vibrations moving through the ground and the sounds of a multiple-horsepower engine clearly evident to the woman, until these abruptly ended. However, right after this car's shutdown, another racecar moved into position next to the first vehicle, and then the driver of this new car also turned his motor off, just in time for another car to join the pair. And then another, and another….

Bewildered, Buffy listened to at least a dozen cars take up their positions on the track outside her room before shutting off their engines. She was now able to hear men's voices close by, cheerfully calling to each other in happy greetings done in various accents from around the world, including Michel Vaillant himself. The California native was concentrating so hard on this, that for once she was taken by surprise at a sudden knock on the door, followed by Françoise's amused call, "Elizabeth, you may come out now."

Blinking at the door, Buffy hesitated, unsure of whatever was going to happen next, and then she picked up her helmet in her gloved hands, nervously swallowing once while simultaneously scolding herself that she'd been through much worse, even not counting the whole dying twice business. Whatever was coming, she'd get through it. After all, she was the Slayer! However, Françoise sounded really delighted, as if she knew something that Buffy didn't….

Indeed, when Buffy opened the door to see the Frenchwoman standing there with a quite pleased expression on her face, the younger woman sent towards her new friend a very suspicious glower, trying to crane her head to look past the journalist's body without undignifiedly standing on her tiptoes. Chuckling, Françoise stepped aside, allowing Buffy to finally see who was awaiting her. The Slayer almost dropped her helmet in sheer shock.

Now staring at Elizabeth Summers were ten men, all of whom she promptly recognized from her newfound knowledge of racing society as the best and finest drivers for Team Vaillante, of which a present Michel Vaillant was the foremost of them, though the others currently standing there and looking curiously as the small woman gaping at them had more than enough racing triumphs among themselves. This celebrity stepped towards Buffy in his own racing outfit, and cheerfully said, "Bonjour, Mademoiselle Summers, permit me to introduce-"

Impolitely interrupting the racer, Buffy said in a faint voice, "Don't bother." Beginning to point to each of the men in turn, the woman began to accurately identify them all, reciting their names one by one. As the American woman did this, the men standing there had their faces change from polite interest into surprised smiles and thoughtful looks traded among each other, until she finally finished with, "Uh, I'm really glad to meet everybody. Oh. Um. I'm Bu- ELIZABETH! Yeah, that's me, Elizabeth Summers!" Now, the expressions of the group were a bit startled, at how eagerly that woman had suddenly declared her name.

Vaillant himself had his eyebrows raised in mild perplexity, until he gave a truly Gallic shrug, dismissing this, and spoke again, "Well, are you ready? You shall be joining us in three races today, with fifty laps for each, and after that, you shall have finished your training course here. I am sure you will do- Pardon me? Mademoiselle? Are you well?" The man worriedly gazed at the young lady beginning to sway on her feet and glassily staring ahead, until a sudden suspicion entered his head, helped along by the choked giggles coming from the other female there. Sternly regarding his wife, Vaillant snapped, "Françoise! You were supposed to tell her!"

"Oh, this is much more enjoyable!" managed Françoise before going into gales of laughter, accompanied by deeper rumbles of masculine amusement from the other drivers who'd just caught onto the joke by their leader's spouse.

Sighing and shaking his head at this childish behavior, Vaillant examined the stunned woman before him, who seemed to be recovering quickly from learning she was going to race with them. Clearing his throat to finally attract her attention, the Frenchman offered, "Let me escort you to your car, Mademoiselle Summers, and I shall tell you what we are going to do."

"Yeah, okay," managed Buffy, still partly in such a daze over her unexpected opportunity about driving with some of the best racers in the whole world, that she would have absently agreed to be sacrificed to the Michelin Man afterwards. She meekly followed after Vaillant patiently explaining the rules and regulations for today's racing, leaving behind a very pleased Team Vaillante who now broke up to head towards their own racecars, save for one driver who went over to another's car and waited there.

Several minutes later, when Vaillant had finished checking on Mademoiselle Summers now in her vehicle, that man walked to his own car, and as he got closer to his best friend standing there, the Frenchman shot an inquiring look at Steve Warson, as the irritated American now aggrievedly said, "All right, Mike, fun's fun, but what the hell's the story with little miss cheerleader there? I can't believe you pulled us all here just to give her the thrill of her life. I just hope to God you know what you're doing, but at least tell me that somebody's paying us big bucks for this!"

Vaillant waited patiently for Warson's rant to end, and when his friend finally glared at him in expectation of some kind of answer, the Frenchman replied cheerfully, "Not a single sou, Steve. Now, will you please get in your car so we can get started, or would you like to stay right here on the track and watch us? It would be most amusing if she ran over you for saying that."

Steve gave Michel a dirty look, to then growl, "I'm not gonna cut her any slack, you know that? She wants to play with the big boys, she gets treated the same."

"That's exactly what I'm hoping for, my friend." Watching Steve's annoyed expression change into bewilderment, Michel clapped his hand upon the American's shoulder and confided, "Now, we shall use the usual channels when we start, understand? Non, non, wait just before Alain gives the flag, and all shall be explained then. Go on, Steve." Turning away from his friend in this affable dismissal, Michel Vaillant put on his helmet and then got into his racecar.

Glowering at his buddy checking out his ride, Steve Warson began to stomp over to his own racecar. Along the way, he crankily glanced at where that pint-sized cause of all of today's fuss and bother was seated in her car. He was startled to see the helmet of what's-her-name directly facing him, and continuing to track him in a slow turn, showing she was paying absolute attention to Steve as the Team Vaillante member walked to his car. Now that he was looking right at her, he could swear that blondie's eyes behind the helmet faceplate were narrowed slightly, almost as if she was feeling annoyed herself. An absurd thought suddenly appeared in Steve's mind, that she had actually heard what he'd said to Mike. He instantly rejected that ridiculous idea, since it had been totally impossible for her to do this, being at least fifty feet away while also wearing her helmet that was specifically designed to cut down on noise. Still, she did look kind of pissed off….

Several minutes later, while every Formula One racer was rumbling in their positions and the drivers were watching Alain climb up the ladder of the signaling platform overhanging the track, with that mechanic holding in his hand the handle of a green flag. Suddenly, all members of Team Vaillante heard through their earbuds the voice of their leader. "Messieurs, what I have to say is for you alone. Mademoiselle Summers cannot hear us on this channel. Now, that jeune femme is good at what we do. Amazingly good, considering that she never raced before coming here. Before you flee for your lives, remember that I allowed her to race with us today, so have a little faith in me, hein? What I want to do is to find out just how good she is. Everyone, keep an eye on her, and tell me what you think. We will not be going for blood on the first race, but I want things to stay serious. Comprendre?"

There was a slightly uncertain rumble of assent over the two-way radios inside the helmets of the rest of the drivers. It was more than a bit fou, there was no doubt at all, but Michel was as clever as a renard, so, eh, why not? Besides, if that petite fille _had_ managed to impress their patron, there must be more to her than what they'd seen earlier today. Not that what had been on display hadn't been most agreeable…. Très bien, puis.

Alain now stood at the end of the platform, and beamingly conscious that all eyes were upon him, he lifted up the green flag at his full right arms' extension, held it there for a suspenseful second, and then he abruptly snapped down the fluttering flag to start the race.

Instantly, eleven Formula One racers shot down the track.

A half-hour later, and forty-plus laps, Michel Vaillant casually looked over at the other speeding racecar on his left, its massive tires spinning in a blur just a couple of inches from his own wheels, and nonchalantly spoke into his helmet mike, "So, Steve, you are the last. Do we need to stop for you to get a drink of water before you speak?"

"Blow it out your ass," grumbled his American friend, as the two vehicles went around a curve as steadily as if both had been on rails. Steve continued to mutter under his breath, as his and Mike's cars sped along the straightway, until he finally admitted, "Okay, okay! She hasn't killed anybody, and she didn't lose her nerve, even when we lapped her. Though, there was something kinda weird about that…."

As his fellow driver's voice thoughtfully trailed off, Michel grinned behind his helmet, waiting expectantly for a few seconds as their racecars rushed together neck and neck. Finally, he prodded, "Oui?"

In a subdued voice, Steve confessed, "I kept getting the feeling she was _learning_ every second of it. But, c'mon, nobody's _that_ good! Not even me, you Frog! Where the hell did she come from, anyway? At least Patrick started off in go-karts! I've never even heard of this Summers before!"

"She came here because her friends thought she was a bad driver, and sent her to learn how to drive more safely."

"Oh, bullshit," snorted Steve in response to his friend's deadpan answer, which had to be some sort of weird European humor.

As they went around the final turn before the end of the race, Michel chuckled, "Non. Every word of that was the truth."

Now, it was Steve's turn to look over at Vaillant's car as they both headed towards the finish line, with Alain back up on the platform and expectantly holding a checkered flag ready. In the next few moments, Steve incredulously asked, "Are you telling me she's a real-life natural?", just finishing the words as their vehicles crossed the white line painted on the tarmac in a dead heat, as Alain flamboyantly waved his flag marking the end of the race for them both.

As he pulled his racecar off the course into a side lane, followed by Steve, to let the other drivers pass by to finish their own laps, Michel thoughtfully spoke on the radio, continuing their private conversation. "She could very well be. Of course, mere skill is not enough, as you know-"

"Yeah," grunted Steve, interrupting his friend as they entered their pits to park their cars while the crews rushed forward to assist the drivers and check on their vehicles. "You need balls."

"A more politer way to put that would be to say Mademoiselle Summers must have the fire in the belly. But, alors, that is what the _next _race is for."


	5. Chapter 5

Buffy flexed her fingers around the vibrating steering wheel, feeling as impatient to start as her rumbling racecar also seemed to be. This time, she was going to do better, now that she knew how things worked. The entire last race, she'd been watching and analyzing, using her Slayer perception to judge how every other driver maneuvered their vehicles. Right now, if she'd been in the track stands and the guys in their cars had been in absolutely identical Formula One racers speeding around the track, she could have then instantly identified all of them just by their driving styles alone. It was exactly like facing one of her usual vamp or demon opponents in a standard cemetery setting, evaluating their level of fighting skill by the monsters' posture, readiness, and quickness in attack and defense, and deciding how to respond to this in the coming battle.

Of course, things were a lot different today on the track. For one, she wasn't trying to dust anybody; the whole point was for somebody to win the race without anyone else getting hurt in a really dangerous sport. Not to mention there were a lot of other guys who wanted to beat the rest of them all, including her, and they were very, very good at this. That meant they'd also been studying Elizabeth Summers, checking out her weaknesses, of which the most apparent would be her inexperience.

Which made it even more _fun_.

Buffy wickedly grinned behind her helmet, her elated mood soaring as it hadn't done in years. Though, she might have become a bit more restrained, if she'd heard what Michel Vaillant was sardonically telling the other drivers in their racecars.

"Messieurs, this time Mademoiselle Summers is the worse enemy of your life. She is the reason you need to beat her to keep your job, to win enough money to prevent your maman from losing her home, to have revenge on her for setting your original Bugatti Type 57 on fire when she left you for another man. Now, go out there and perform the most despicable maneuvers imaginable against that vache without actually laying a finger upon her. Make me proud, mes amis."

Fifty laps later, the rest of the racecars were parked in the pits, being worked on for the last race, while their drivers were clustered together, standing in a group a short distance from the only empty servicing area, with the majority of these waiting males having expressions ranging from stifled amusement to actual smirks. Finally, what they were waiting for came slowly driving into the pit lane from the main track, where a few minutes ago she'd gracelessly lost control of her car, spinning out the width of the entire track to then skid into the bare desert ground at the center of the racecourse. Totally unharmed, of course, but also completely humiliated during every moment, along with the further mortification of having to then creep out of her stopover back onto the track and drive slowly towards the pits, all while knowing everybody was watching her and having a good laugh. Including those guys hanging around where she had to park.

Pulling into her pit and switching off the engine of her car, Buffy remained motionless in the Formula One cockpit, her helmet staring straight ahead. Finally, she slowly levered herself out of her seat, not looking at anyone, and the young woman began to stalk towards the changing room where she'd stayed before. As the men interestedly watched her stomp off, Steve Warson, a wide grin now on the face of the man who'd performed the adroit maneuver that would've had him warned off the track in real life, began to open his mouth to mockingly call after Buffy.

Before Steve could actually say anything to the young woman heading away with her stiff back to them all, she blurringly lifted her arms to seize the bottom edge of her helmet, to then yank it off, and gripping it in her right hand, Buffy hurled her helmet to the ground by her with all of a Slayer's power.

BANG!

As the helmet smashed into the tarmac, it instantly shattered into numerous pieces, some of which flew through the air almost all the way back to the flinching group of drivers, who then cautiously straightened up to stare with open mouths after the small woman that had disappeared behind the slammed door of the changing room. In the momentary silence, as the pit crews stopped working to also gape in amazement, Michel Vaillant then stepped forward, soon followed by the rest of the exceedingly subdued men, who watched their patron stop by the point where a very angry femme had just expressed her feelings.

Vaillant then stooped down, to pick up something, and as he then examined a crushed fragment of a racing helmet that was guaranteed to withstand the most extreme crash, the Frenchman absently addressed Steve Warson coming up by him, "Ami, I suggest it would not be a good idea tonight for you to ask Mademoiselle Summers 'Voulez-vous diner avec moi?'"

As he regarded with wide eyes the small but deep crater in the racecourse tarmac, Steve weakly replied, "You think?"

A hour later, Buffy Summers was back in her prepared racecar, absolutely still, the new helmet she was wearing, that had been left without comment in her cockpit seat, now motionless as she stared ahead at all of the other vehicles before her. Nobody in the rest of the Formula One racers could actually see her face as they cautiously took a peek in their rear-view mirrors at the brooding woman in her automobile, and they were frankly glad of this, as these drivers now listened to Michel Vaillant deliver his last speech for this final race: "I believe it will be for blood now, messieurs. Bonne chance, and stay safe."

Forty-eight laps later, Steve Warson said through whitened lips, "Christ, Mike, you better be at the top of your game." He, along with the rest of the other drivers were clustered together in their speeding cars a half-lap back behind the two racecars battling it out further on. Nobody broke away to try their luck in passing these cars, with all the fascinated men instead watching the duel ahead as they drove, everyone knowing this was truly going to be something to remember, whatever happened.

She was the Slayer now, every nerve and muscle quivering in their eagerness to triumph against her foe, as Buffy steadfastly kept the very front of her racer an exact two inches from the black blurs of Vaillant's rear wheels as they blazed down the track. The young woman coldly waited for her opponent to make the slightest mistake, since that supremely gifted man had skillfully blocked her attempts to pass, using every bit of his vastly greater experience that had been the only thing holding off Buffy's superior physical abilities.

But, Vaillant made no errors, holding his position exactly to keep Buffy behind him, as both cars now headed towards the finish line, with everyone else on the track, the pits, and the stands having their total attention focused on this. Including Françoise standing in the observation tower, binoculars in hand, as she watched with a pale face and inwardly prayed, *Please, Michel, you don't need to do what you told me last night. But you will, my stubborn, stupid husband-*

Back on the track as their cars started the final lap, Buffy was beginning to give up hope, until something totally unforeseeable happened. Just as they went around the last turn, Vaillant's car abruptly skidded sideways a few inches. Only a Slayer would have instantly recognized from their own recent experience that the Frenchman's car had probably run over a patch of slippery oil lying on the racetrack that had been accidentally sprayed from another car's engine. Buffy also saw Vaillant beginning to recover from this, his incredible reflexes far faster than nearly every human on earth and almost as good as hers now starting to respond in getting his car back in front of the young woman to keep her from passing him.

Because, there was now a chance of this. There was barely room for her to get ahead of Vaillant, and it would be incredibly dangerous for them both if she choose to try, with a serious risk of some part of their cars colliding, resulting in a tremendous crash for the racers that might kill them both.

Knowing all this in a flash, Buffy spent that stretched-out moment making her decision, using not just everything she'd learned at the racecourse, from Vaillant himself as he'd taught her, as that man freely offered his knowledge to his new student, but also all her Slayer experience in combat against creatures of the dark, and finally, everything that made up Elizabeth Anne Summers. In her Formula One racer, Buffy's foot on the accelerator now tensed….and relaxed.

As her car imperceptibly slowed down, ahead of Buffy, Michel Vaillant's own vehicle now under perfect control skidded back into its original position speeding in the middle of the racetrack, right at the point where it and Buffy's racer would have smashed together with savage force if she'd actually made her try.

A second later, a white-faced Alain feebly swept his checkered flag as two racecars zipped past the finish line under his platform. Instead of turning off into the pit lane, these pair of cars now took another full lap, as the other Formula One racers instead left the racetrack to pull into the pits, leaving the front two service areas empty for their proper occupants.

As Michel finished his victory lap, he glanced back through his mirror at where his shadow was only a car's length behind, as he smiled wryly. This same expression was still on the man's face when he finally went off the course, pulling into the first pit of the line, with the other vehicle stopping right next to him. Michel barely had enough time to get out of his car and remove his helmet before Buffy had leapt from her ride, yanking off her own headgear to dangle dangerously in her left hand as she stormed over to where the man was standing, her right index finger pointing accusingly at Michel's chest as the woman now stopped in front of him and then screamed right into his face.

"You bastard, you set me up! _WHY?"_

After that last shrieked word, Michel Vaillant calmly looked down into the enraged face of Mademoiselle Summers, and said in his most serious tone possible, "Because I needed to see if you were one of us."

Buffy had every trace of her anger instantly disappear, to be replaced with absolute bafflement, as her mouth fell open and she stared at the tall man before her intently examining her in turn. Ignoring how the other drivers were coming up to stand in a semicircle behind her, Buffy choked out, "What- How-"

Smiling again, Michel brought up his right hand to wave it in a half-circle encompassing not only himself and Buffy, but the rest of the drivers standing behind her. "We - I, my teammates, and every other racer - we are all in this together, in our competitions. Yes, we all want to win, and we risk ourselves, use every trick possible, and push ourselves further than we thought possible. But, we also remember that it is a game. A sport, a pastime, but one with limits we agree to. We do not kill each other to win, any more than a chess match will start off with a player tossing a live hand grenade onto the table as their first move. In order for us to race together, we must rely on each other to remember that. You, Mademoiselle Summers, when you had a chance to win just a moment ago, you could have taken the risk, and if that risk had been only to yourself, that would have been your choice. But you choose to not put me in danger, even if that meant you lost. I did what I did there on the track, to see if you deserved the rarest thing we racers can offer each other. Trust. I trusted you - and you did not fail me."

At those last words, Michel Vaillant leaned forward, and gallantly kissed Buffy on her cheek. As the young woman stood there frozen, the other man straightened up, to then watch with a wide smile on his face, as the other drivers now clustered around their new comrade, giving her respectful handshakes, shoulder clasps, and pats on her back. Steve Warson managed to be the second one to kiss Buffy on her cheek, with that man's chuckling words of "You did good, kid," accompanying this action that were the only thing keeping her from at once punching him out.

Buffy didn't fully recover her senses until Françoise then showed up in the pit, with that anxious woman rushing towards her husband to put him in a firm one-armed embrace, pulling him up close as she furiously hissed to Michel in French words that the Slayer couldn't understand. The older woman's tone was perfectly understandable, though, and Buffy knew she was saying, "I'm going to make you pay for that the rest of your life, you bastard, and you'd damn well better live long enough to fully suffer for doing such a stupid thing to make me worry about you!"

As all of them there, Buffy, the other drivers, and the pit crew now watched in amusement, Michel finally cleared his throat, and as he looked down at Françoise hugging him, he gently said, "Chérie, you can give it to her now."

Blinking back tears of relief as she looked up to wrinkle her nose in loving irritation at her husband, Françoise let go of her right arm around Michel's shoulders, stepping away to then turn towards the other woman there. Buffy was now able to see that Françoise's left arm had been cradling a small object the size of a softball wrapped in a white cloth. The Slayer then looked up at Françoise's face smiling at her, as the Frenchwoman said softly, "This is Michel's gift for you. And from me, you have my deepest thanks for not killing my mari d'idiot, because I want to reserve that for myself."

Happily grinning back at Françoise, Buffy's expression then changed to mild surprise, as the older woman now handed over what she'd been holding, also taking back from Buffy the helmet she'd still had in her left hand. Looking around at the crowd eagerly watching her, Buffy then gazed down with bafflement at what was in her hands, to then uncertainly unwrap the white cloth covering this object, until she stared at what was revealed.

It was a small trophy cup, of pure silver as far as she could judge, with enough of a patina to show that it wasn't new. Looking in absolute bewilderment at Michel and Françoise who were once more standing together, their arms around each other's waists, Buffy heard from the Frenchman, "That was from my father many years ago, Mademoiselle Summers, when I did something on a track that pleased him. He gave it to me, and I give it to you, and perhaps someday, you shall pass it on to someone who deserves it."

Again looking down at what she was holding, a numb Buffy then gently touched the trophy cup, turning it over to see on the front of this reward for merit a single engraved word that summed up everything for today's cherished legacy: RESPECT.


	6. Chapter 6

That evening, as they waved goodbye to the frantic arm signaling Buffy's farewell through the open taxi window, Michel and Françoise watched the cab head down the road from the racing academy, to then turn onto the main highway. When this vehicle was out of sight, Michel looked down at his wife by his side, and dryly asked, "So, how long do you think?"

Françoise gave her husband a loving hug with her arm around his waist, and then she said thoughtfully, "Oh, a week should do it."

"She might call earlier herself," reasonably pointed out the man.

"Non," replied Françoise, firmly shaking her head. "I know that Elizabeth feels she has to attend to her responsibilities at her workplace. However much as she may want to, it would be far easier for her to decide if someone else made the offer."

Chuckling, Michel leaned over to kiss his spouse on her temple, and then as they both turned to walk towards the front entrance of the racing academy, with their arms still around each others' waists, he cheerfully said, "I leave it all in your hands, chérie. Who am I, a mere man, to interfere in the plots of the females of the species? Ouch!"

That last yelp from Michel's lips came from Françoise's hand sliding down his waist to his derrière and giving him a good pinch there. Startled, he once more looked down at his wife smirking upwards at him, as she purred, "It is good that you know your place, puny mortal. Now, let us retire for the night, and you may begin your worship of your beloved goddess. I expect all of your faithful devotions to be most lengthy and absolutely successful in pleasuring your adored deity."

This time, Michel slid down his own large hand along Françoise's side to give her rear a very possessive squeeze, as he happily murmured, "Thy will be done."

A day later, after she paid off the airport cab, Buffy watched her recent ride drive away, leaving her at the gates of the Cleveland House For Gifted Students. Picking up her suitcases, Buffy barely felt the weight of her belongings, which currently included gifts for her friends at the Slayers domicile and a very special personal possession tucked deep in among her clothes. So, as she walked towards the former boarding school that now housed superhuman females, the young woman's trudging pace was due to her mental state rather than any physical exertion.

She was feeling really let down, Buffy admitted to herself. It'd been so wonderful in California, but now that she was back again in Cleveland (Buffy inwardly cursed whatever being had the evil sense of humor to manifest the new Hellmouth in that hundred-inches-of-snow-every-year city), all of her duties in helping to defend the world against the forces of the dark would once more demand all of her attention. Ignoring the mild tingle on her skin as she passed through Willow's protective wards, Buffy glumly knew her vacation was over.

Finally reaching the main building and putting down her suitcases on the front doorstep, Buffy paused while reaching for the doorknob, her head tilting in response to something only she and one other could sense. A faint smile touched her lips, as Buffy opened the front door and brought her suitcases in, absently dropping the luggage onto the foyer floor, to then close the door behind her, all while watching Faith come clattering down the main stairs of the Slayers House.

"Hey, B, didn't expect ya back so soon. Ya coulda called from the airport, had someone pick ya up," called out the dark Slayer as she hopped off the last step onto the hallway and strode towards her warrior sister that the Boston-born woman had sensed walking up from the front gates.

"That's okay, Faith," cheerfully replied Buffy, who waited until Faith had stopped before her to then give the other woman a quick hug. She knew enough about Faith's hellish childhood not to be offended by the brunette's fleetingly stiffening in their embrace. Even among people she now totally trusted, the former abuse victim was still a bit uncomfortable with close physical contact she hadn't initiated herself, though that survivor was getting better, with help from her therapy sessions with Dr. Frasier Crane.

As Faith now proved by relaxing and returning the hug, to then let go and look searchingly at the blonde woman. "So, everythin' was fine an' dandy at that racin' place? Nothin' went wrong, that mighta made ya lose yer temper?"

"What?" blinked Buffy at the other Slayer waiting for an answer to that last strange question. Looking a little puzzled, Buffy shrugged and then quirked an inquiring eyebrow at Faith as she replied, "No, it was pretty good. I'll tell everyone at dinner what it was like, and afterwards, I've got some souvenirs to hand out. Well, I'm going to take a shower. See you later - oh, by the way, put me down on the schedule for tonight's patrol. I might as well get back on the nightly grind." As she chattered the last words, Buffy flashed Faith a quick smile and then she gathered up the suitcases to brush past her greeter.

After turning to watch Buffy head up the stairs of the house to her room with her luggage, Faith was left standing in the main corridor, looking thoughtful. Her head lifted, as she sniffed the air. The brunette began tracking an unique scent, striding down the corridor, and then into one of the downstairs rooms that was used as a combination sitting room/lounge, with numerous armchairs and sofas scattered around, and bookcases reaching to the ceiling that held various works of fiction, reference volumes, magazines, and other reading material. At that moment, the room was seemingly empty, except for Faith, who was now glowering at one of the sofas as she stood before this room fixture.

This innocent-looking piece of furniture gave the impression of being like any other upholstered seat for several people, identical to the two other sofas also in the room. However, there was something different about this exact furnishing. Unlike the other furniture that were set flush against the room's walls, this particular sofa was standing a few feet away from the partition.

A look of extreme disgust now on her face, Faith folded her arms across her chest and she snarled at the sofa, "Well, she's back, and nothin' bad happened! So, get the fuck outta there and get back ta work!"

Dead silence. No response.

Faith lifted her eyes up to the ceiling in absolute exasperation, and she then took a step towards the sofa, lifting her right leg to place the bottom of her boot on the forward edge of the seat cushion. As her leg straightened, her foot sank a few inches into the cushion until the entire sofa began to skid backwards under her push. Faith kept on shoving the sofa a few inches toward the wall, until she finally got the response she was expecting.

An outraged yelp rang throughout the room, and a smirking Faith now lifted her foot away from the sofa, swinging back her leg to take a step away from the furniture, as the woman now waited impatiently for the next thing to happen.

Seemingly coming to life, the sofa began to shift and scrape across the floor away from the wall, until it was back in its original position it had occupied a few moments before. As the couch came to rest, an instant later, the head of Xander Harris popped up from behind the back of the sofa, giving Faith an extremely dirty look, as his mouth opened to yell at her.

Beating him to the punch, Faith snapped, "What are ya, five years old? Yer hidin' behind yer furniture fort…." Faith trailed off at this, sniffing the air again, and continued, "Plus ya got Twinkies in there!"

Just Xander's seemingly-disembodied head remained perched on top of the back of the sofa. Though, of course, the rest of the man's body was crouched behind the sofa in the space before the wall, his knees at the same level as the top of the huge pile on the floor consisting of wrapped yellow snack cakes with delicious creamy filling. Despite all this, Xander managed to actually look offended, as he said in a tone of lofty hauteur, "Doctor Crane advised me to get in touch with my inner child."

Faith blew an extremely rude raspberry sound with her lips, as she then growled, "That's like sayin' the Atlantic Ocean hasta get in touch with its water! Ya don't need no practice in actin' like a kid! Fer Chrissakes, just yesterday, ya spent a whole hour arguin' with Andrew which was the worst supporting' character ever, Jar Jar Binks or that dwarf robot from the Buck Rogers tv show!"

Xander glared back at the Slayer, and the man spent a few moments considering what his reaction should be to that. Any proper response needed to be delivered in a mature, responsible manner, so Xander then promptly stuck out his tongue at Faith.

Her patience finally at an end, the irate Slayer now lifted her right hand to point a stiff index finger directly at that moron's face, as she hissed, "Buffy's gonna be eatin' with us all tonight, so ya _will_ be there, an' ya _will _behave yerself, or I'm gonna drag ya to the table by yer damn tongue, boytoy!" After delivering that last threat in a very convincing voice of absolute menace, Faith whirled around to stalk out of the room.

This meant the departing woman missed seeing Xander's head abruptly drop down behind the sofa, as the man crouched there, his trembling fingers unthinkingly tearing open several Twinkie packages, one after the other, to then cram them all at once into his mouth, munching away with bulging cheeks as the Sunnydale native's worried face clearly showed he remained convinced that a short blonde's revenge was still going to be wreaked upon a certain Xander Harris.


	7. Chapter 7

Several days later, Buffy came into the main Slayers House through the back entrance. In the early afternoon, the building was quiet, with most of the baby Slayers at school, except for some of the older girls going through weapons training with Faith in the gym. Buffy appreciated the calm surroundings, since she really needed to think.

The young woman was becoming a little worried about her continuing mild depression. It wasn't anything like her 'blah' days, which wouldn't occur for another few months. Still, Buffy wondered if she needed to schedule another appointment with Frasier Crane, even if it was just to be reassured by the good doctor that it was normal for people to come back from a really great vacation and then feel actual reluctance in returning to their everyday jobs.

Buffy sighed, as she walked down the building hallway. The odd part was, a few months ago in this place, she'd spotted something that perfectly reflected her feelings today. In one of the trainee Watcher's cubicles in the research section, there'd been a small metal plaque attached to the wall of this work area, with a quotation from Mark Twain inscribed on the face of this object: "Work consists of whatever a body is obliged to do, and play consists of whatever a body is not obliged to do."

Now that she was back into what had turned out to be her normal (hah!) life, Buffy was starting to take a hard look at her future. She'd been warily contemplating her options, concentrating on this deeply enough to pretty much disregard Xander's sudden skittishness around her ever since Buffy had returned from California.

For some reason it had started at her first dinner back with them all, after Buffy had sketchily mentioned her experiences at the racing academy in the desert, with just a casual description of learning how to drive race cars. She'd good-naturedly accepted the jokes from the others that maybe Buffy would no longer be such a danger to everyone else on the road, which had allowed the Slayer to hide her private feelings and avoid speaking of how much joy she'd felt at the academy, what with the racing and meeting Michel and Françoise Vaillant and everybody else in their world.

After their dinner, Buffy had then handed out to various people at the table some souvenirs of the racing academy she'd thoughtfully picked up for them. Two specific individuals had very different reactions to their identical gifts. Faith had happily snuggled into her leather racing jacket, while on the other hand, Xander had stared with horror at this object of clothing that had been laid upon the table before him, showing the same level of dismay expressed by someone who'd just been given a filled bucket of live piranha, with those vicious fish leaping into the air, fanged jaws snapping at any nearby flesh. That man had then shot up to his feet from his chair at the table, gabbled something about needed to visit the little boys' room, and had promptly fled from Buffy's presence. A smirking Faith had then assured a dumbfounded Buffy that the brunette woman would damn well make sure Xander wore his present, picking up the other jacket and heading off with an evil gleam in her eyes while in search of the dark Slayer's cowering prey.

Frankly, it had been like that ever since. Whenever they met again, Xander had quickly made himself scarce, and Buffy still couldn't figure out why. It had gone on long enough that the woman now instantly decided, as she walked through the Slayers House, that she'd had it. Gloomy mood or not, Buffy was determined to get to the bottom of this newfound awkwardness with her Sunnydale friend. Xander Harris was going to talk, or else. Nodding firmly to herself, Buffy went off to hunt for a male nincompoop, her brisk stride foretelling sure doom for a certain one-eyed Twinkie lover.

Turning a corner in the building corridor, Buffy suddenly heard a familiar voice. No, _two_ familiar voices. Abruptly stopping, the Slayer's eyes widened with shock, and then she moved with superhuman speed down the corridor, skidding into the central passageway of the house, where Xander was speaking into the downstairs front phone in its nook at the side of the main staircase.

"Sorry, we don't have anyone here named Elizabeth Summairs- Oh! You must mean Buffy. She's not here right now, but you can leave a message with me. Say, would you also mind saying 'zut alors' and 'sacre bleu'- URK!"

Xander had been interrupted in his conversation by steel-hard fingers that were presently gripping his throat, to then effortlessly lift his body to slam him hard against the side of the staircase. Holding the man up at her full left arm's length, Buffy easily caught with her other hand the phone receiver her friend had just dropped as both of his own hands desperately came up to clutch the fingers curled around his throat. Xander didn't even bother to try to pull these strangling digits open, knowing he wouldn't budge them at all. Instead, the man held on and did a modified chin-up to get as much as possible of his body weight on his arms before his larynx got crushed. Anything to keep breathing while he listened to Buffy's side of her discussion with the caller on the phone.

"I'm sorry, Françoise. Look, it's a long story - yes, both about the guy you were talking to _and_ that name."

Xander casually swung his legs, just to remind Buffy he was still there and desirous of a little extra oxygen. The fingers didn't relax the slightest.

"Huh? Well, I suppose so, but why?"

Black spots were beginning to appear in his vision.

"_What?_ You can't be serious!"

He was beginning to have portions of his past life pass before his eyes, and it wasn't even that time with Anya, the jar of honey, and the ostrich feather. Oh, no, it had to be the occasion during his junior year at Sunnydale High, with Principal Snyder berating him about his history term paper. Like an in-depth study of the creation of the bikini wasn't an actual historical event, and even now with darkness closing in, Xander still felt really peeved about the two days' detention he'd received from that little troll so long ago.

The man was barely conscious of the woman holding him up now gently placing the phone receiver back on its hook. However, he did become aware of what happened next, along with every other living creature within a radius of a thousand feet.

"YAAAAHHHHHOOOOOO!"

Just moments later, Faith and over half-a-dozen younger Slayers burst into the main corridor from the gym where they'd been practicing with their weapons. All of these warrior women held their swords, knives, and axes ready for action, as they rushed towards whatever creature had managed to invade their home and then utter that unnatural, ear-splitting screech of absolute delight. The entire crowd of speedy Slayers now came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the passageway, with girls colliding into each other and only by the grace of God avoiding a friendly-stab incident, as they all stood together in the corridor and gawked at what was currently taking place there.

Buffy Summers, the original Slayer, survivor of Sunnydale, resurrected twice, and victor over more apocalypses than you could shake a stake at, was now dancing in the corridor by the main staircase, a look of total bliss on her face as she twirled on her feet, kicked up her heels, and shook her booty. All while cradling the body of Xander Harris in her arms like a baby, dipping and swinging him up and down, side to side, beaming down at his turning-green face.

There was one final thing about the whole event that made it go down as a legendarily incident in the annals of the New Council, disbelievingly confirmed by all those there who'd had the misfortune, ill luck, dire fate, or bad karma to have cringingly experienced the dissonant voice of Buffy singing at the top of her lungs.

"_OH WHAT A BEAUTIFUL MORNIN', OH WHAT A BEAUTIFUL DAY, I'VE GOT A BEAUTIFUL FEELIN', EVERYTHING'S GOIN' MY WAAAAAYYYYY!_"

In the dizzying whirl of being held captive by the cacophonous blonde, Xander managed to catch sight of Faith at the forefront of the huddling crowd of other Slayers, with the astonished brunette clearly unable to believe her eyes, or ears. Squirming, the one-eyed man being casually carried by Buffy managed to get an arm free, and he frantically waved at Faith, signaling a desperate plea for help. It was necessarily a silent gesture for assistance, as not even the heightened senses of the warrior women could hear his shouts for aid over a clearly-insane female belting out a musical theater number at full blast.

Observing this, the baby Slayers looked at their teacher to see what she'd do. They saw Faith Lehane's face change from watching in alarm the dancing pair in the corridor, to suddenly looking thoughtful, and then the dark Slayer calmly put away her ready-for-action knives back into her clothing, sauntered sideways to the corridor wall to lean against this partition, and then she cheerfully waved back at Xander, snickering evilly while doing the last.

A look of complete betrayal came over Xander's features, and as his free hand curled into a fist to be shaken furiously at Faith, he and Buffy spun around in another pirouette, and the man came into view again, mouthing at the other Slayer what were evidently foul obscenities. Not that even these could be heard either over his friend's discordant singing, as Xander abruptly stopped trying to shout and his face now went pale, as the man with the eyepatch realized what was going to happen next, accompanied by the corresponding lyrics appallingly performed as loud as possible.

"_HIGH AS AN ELEPHANT'S EYYYYYYYE!_" bellowed Buffy coming to a halt by the staircase, as she tossed Xander straight up with all her strength.

All of the baby Slayers watched in horrified fascination as Xander shot up towards the ceiling, uttering a terrified shriek while passing out of their sight, as he disappeared into the air space between the upper staircase and the overhead ceiling of their floor. The girls' gazes came back down to incredulously stare at an exultant Buffy well into the mood, doing several spins away from the point where she'd just sent Xander into orbit, performing a high kick, another spin, and then a classic ballet grand jeté towards her original position.

While in the middle of her leap, Buffy snatched a descending Xander out of mid-air, her hands gripping him under his armpits and holding him up, as she landed en pointe, this allowing her to dangle him with his feet an inch off the floor, to then smoothly lower the man so his boots again touched the ground. A dazed Xander, still in Buffy's grip and staring into her glowing face as she relaxed into first position, now let his feet slide back, to slump forward onto his knees.

Buffy shifted her grip from under his arms to quickly bring her hands up to cradle Xander's face in her cupped palms, holding him still and upright, as she leaned forward to bestow a long, hard kiss directly on his lips. The aghast male had his single eye open as wide as possible as he stared directly into her joyous features, and then that man's remaining orb rolled right up, as Xander finally passed out from sheer shock.

Finally pulling her head back from the kiss, Buffy let go of the man and turned towards the amazed crowd of females, blissfully ignoring the dull thump from behind herself, as an unconscious Xander fell forward onto his face. Spreading out her arms, Buffy tilted her head back and caroled at the ceiling, "I LOOOOVE THAT GUY!"

The frozen group of onlookers were unable to react to this, or to Buffy now bringing her head down to beam at them all and continue her zany behavior, as she then whooped while looking at one specific person, "I LOOOOVE YOU, FAITH!" Not bothering to see whatever response this might result in, the blonde woman went on, this time smiling at the baby Slayers petrified by her attention, "I LOOOOVE YOU ALL, TOO!" Buffy finished by suddenly bringing her outstretched arms snapping back to give herself a happy hug, as a last deafening comment was uttered, "ISN'T IT A LOOOOVELY WORLD!"

At that, Buffy spun around to nimbly hop over Xander's limp body face-down on the floor, alighting on the bottom stair landing, and then she bounded up the stairs, taking the steps five at a time, as along the way, she started stridently singing again, once more from another musical which almost certainly caused a playwright with the initials of GBS to start spinning in his grave at several thousand rpm's.

"_LOVERLY, LOVERLY, LOVERLY, LOVERLY_-" A final BANG!, as the door to Buffy's room slammed shut, at long last ended the horrific assault upon an Alan Jay Lerner tune.


	8. Chapter 8

After several moments of shocked immobility among the remaining Slayers on the ground floor, Faith was the first to move again, quickly stepping towards Xander lying on the linoleum. As she stared down in sudden worry that lessened at hearing his easy breathing and strong heartbeat, Faith also absently listened to the baby Slayers behind her quickly conducting a low-voiced debate among themselves about whether (a) Buffy Summers had finally gone totally bonkers, and (b) that blonde woman's butchering of Broadway melodies was the first sign of THE coming apocalypse to end all apocalypses.

As the girls came to the quick conclusion that (a) you betcha, and (b) even if it wasn't, it _should_ be, Faith bent down to hook two fingers under Xander's belt at the back of his pants, and she then effortlessly lifted him to her waist level, with his arms and legs dangling to the floor, as his head hung down in oblivion. Still easily holding the man, and looking around the crowd of baby Slayers now watching her in utmost fascination, Faith barked, "Awright, time for a Slayer pop quiz! Over the last week, he's been goin' 'round with gloom-an'-doom, sayin' we was all gonna get it when Buffy got back. Well, the bad thing happened to _him_ alone. We got an out-cold Xander Harris here, so what should we do to- with him? Anybody? Yeah, you."

At her last words, Faith pointed with her free hand at one of the girls at the back of the crowd, who had timidly lifted her own hand. Kate Willoughby was remarkably tender-hearted for a baby Slayer, with the fifteen-year-old girl loving puppies, kittens, butterflies, and rainbows. In their occupation of defending the world from unearthly monsters, the other young warrior women had to put up with the sensitive teenager's sniffling over having to decapitate the fiercest demons and trying to reassure her about-to-be-staked vampire opponents that it wasn't going to hurt, honest.

In a gentle, worried tone, Kate mumbled, "Well, uh, I think he's had a severe shock, and he should be put to bed in peace and quiet, with a warm blanket, and a big bowl of chicken soup for when he wakes up. I could read to him if he wants-"

"Yeah, yeah, we get the idea," interrupted Faith. As she looked around the group of girls rolling their eyes over what Kate had just said, the older woman gruffly continued, "Anybody who thinks that's what we should do, raise your hand."

Everyone else kept their arms firmly at their sides, as Kate's own hand only managed to get up halfway before the blushing girl quickly yanked it back down, staring at the floor in her acute embarrassment. Faith's next words directed at Kate were spoken in a tone of stern kindness, as the brunette declared, "We gotta have a talk, sister. Ya need serious advice 'bout bein' a Slayer, and it ain't actin' like Florence Nightingale. Okay, then- Yeah, you."

Faith had pointed at Phillippa McNair eagerly waving her upraised hand. This new girl promptly showed that her House nickname of 'Filthy McNasty' hadn't been given to her by that Slayer's friends simply as a play upon her name, since with a truly evil expression on the young woman's striking features, she now gloatingly proposed, "I say we take him outside to the back yard, shove the garden hose nozzle down his pants, and turn on the water at full blast!"

"Mmmmm," meditatively hummed Faith, as she considered this. Glancing around at the wicked grins suddenly appearing on the faces of virtually every girl there (Kate just looked a bit distressed), a deadpan Faith inquired, "All in favor?"

The building hallway shook with a roar of multiple female voices shouting "AYE!"

"The ayes have it," nodded Faith, who herself had lifted Xander upwards to head level by her own arm raised in agreement, with the man now in a jackknifed position as his body dangled towards the floor with his butt currently the highest part of his body. Still easily holding Xander in this ludicrous position, Faith swept down the corridor towards the back door, with the baby Slayers eagerly crowding along after the older woman.

About ten minutes later, in the Slayers House main conference room, a young woman abruptly appeared out of thin air, to stand on the wedge-shaped part of the floor covered with runes and other magical symbols that were inscribed at the bare north corner of the room. Everyone in the house, including the cleaning crew, had the strictest instructions to never step or move anything into that corner unless specifically instructed to do so, and these directives had been faithfully followed.

So, Dawn Summers had an entirely different reason for suddenly clutching her stomach and looking nauseous right after the teleportation spell ended. Groaning quietly, Dawn then mumbled out loud, "Note to self: In the future, make sure you don't have a double bacon chili-cheeseburger for lunch just before you find out you have to take the Willow express!"

Taking a few deep breaths to settle her stomach, Dawn looked around the empty room. Her face deepened into an angry frown, and she threw up her arms in exasperation, grumbling, "Oh, great! Buffy tells me to drop everything and pop over from Scotland, not even saying why, just that it's important, and now she can't even bother to show up here!" Muttering to herself, Dawn stomped over to the conference room double doors and pulled the left panel open, peering up and down the main house corridor, to see if her sister was on her way. No such luck. As she stepped through the doorway and then closed it behind herself, Dawn casually glanced along the corridor towards the rear door of the house, and her eyebrows rose at seeing it ajar. The woman's head then quickly turned to pay more attention to the strange sounds presently drifting through the open door, as these noises made an astonished Dawn halt in her tracks.

The racket the younger Summers sister was listening to included the sounds of water being sprayed at extremely high pressure, a man's very familiar voice raised in outraged male roars that abruptly changed to spluttering bellows, and shrieks of feminine glee that combined shouts of "Aim for his face!" "He's gonna make a break for it!" "Wet t-shirt contest, my ass!"

At this last gleeful comment yelled out by a woman's voice having a strong Boston accent, Dawn lifted her eyes to the ceiling and said under her breath, "Ah, home sweet asylum." Shaking her head over zany memories of her own stay several years ago that had caused the Key to sigh in relief at finally moving out to her own small apartment in the Scotland castle of the New Council's main headquarters, Dawn tiptoed over to the main staircase and quietly went up these steps to the floor where Buffy had her living quarters.

Finally at the door of her sister's apartment, Dawn rapped sharply with the installed knocker, and then she exasperatedly growled at the door, "Okay, what's the big idea? There better be one hell of a good explanation- WHOOP!"

This last startled exclamation was the result of the door swiftly opening, a hand snapping out to grab Dawn by her arm, and then lifting the young woman off her feet to yank her bodily into the room, with the door slamming closed as suddenly as it had opened. No further sound came from anything that might be occurring inside the room, due to truly effective soundproofing that could defeat even Slayer hearing.

Presently, on the ground floor, Faith strutted into the house through the back door, following by the very contended and extremely damp baby Slayers. The good mood of the brunette woman might have had something to do with being totally dry except for a few drops of water in her hair, and Faith's happiness only increased at seeing who was standing by the staircase in the main corridor, a suitcase at her feet.

"Hey, Little D! Whatcha doin' here? I thought ya was readin' alla those dry-as-dust books at the castle and makin' the trainee Watchers bite through their tweed handkerchiefs when they saw ya in those painted-on jeans I sent ya last Christmas."

Dawn smiled back at the woman she'd long ago forgiven for what that Slayer had done during her dark time. "I'm just here on a quick visit, Faith. Buffy and I- What the _hell_ is that?"

The Abominable Mud Man, aka Xander Harris, lurched down the house corridor from the rear door, ignoring the baby Slayers that ducked out of his path, with these girls now backing up against the walls and watching with wide eyes as the sodden and muck-covered male held out his extended arms dripping with garden sludge, filthy fingers working in preparation for a throat-crushing grip on the woman in front of him, who'd now turned around to give Xander a satisfied smirk, accompanied by very pleased sound effects.

Over Faith's cackles, Xander, who'd come to an abrupt stop at seeing Dawn there, now stood in the corridor while furiously bellowing at the younger Summers sister, "NOT ONLY IS YOUR SISTER INSANE, SHE PASSED THAT ONTO EVERY OTHER SLAYER!"

Dawn looked bemused for a few moments over hearing that, and then the woman simply shrugged and said in a matter-of-fact tone, "That's not news, Xan. By the way, is that a different look for you?"

"_Grrrrrrr_…" snarled Xander, clearly about to imitate the Frankenstein monster on the day when that creature had finally become fed up to someone's back teeth with all those stupid villagers with their stupid torches and decided to go berserk. Before the drenched man ruining the corridor linoleum could actually lose his temper, he was interrupted by another person's sudden arrival at the scene.

Upstairs, Buffy Summers, while holding two suitcases in her hands, jumped over the railing on the second floor and casually dropped down the airspace, landing lightly on her designer shoes in the corridor. The blonde woman easily stood there, and glancing at the mud-plastered man glaring around at everyone, Buffy nonchalantly commented, "Hey, Xander, it took you long enough to pay attention to Cordy's advice that you should burn those Hawaiian shirts and dress in earth tones."

A gobbet of mud slid off the end of Xander's nose, revealing his features that had started turning reddish-purple in true fury. Observing this, Buffy decided it was time to give everybody there her news before the eruption actually began. She announced in a clear voice that rang throughout the corridor, "I'm leaving."

"_What?_"

This was simultaneously choked out by Xander, Faith, and several of the baby Slayers. The stunned man hurriedly wiped his face, absently making additional work for the House cleaning crew as more mud fell to the floor, to stare at the blonde Slayer calmly looking back at them all. Now actually worried instead of being angry, Xander carefully asked, "Uh, Buff, is something wrong?"

Buffy shook her head, chuckling at the concerned tone from the grubby man, and told him, "No, everything's okay. I'm just taking a Sundayical-"

At her sister's side, Dawn winced and tersely corrected, "Sabbatical!"

Shooting a glare from the corner of her eye at Dawn, Buffy indignantly huffed, "Well, I was close!" Turning to the baffled Heads of the House, the California native continued, "Anyway, I'm going to leave for a while, for…personal reasons. No, no! Nothing bad!" These last words were hurriedly spoken at seeing the sudden looks of worry on the faces of Faith and Xander, with the shifting of the latter's features into this concerned expression causing even more clumps of soil to fall from his head.

Faintly smiling at seeing this, Buffy went on more cheerfully during the dazed silence of the others. "I'm just telling you, I have to go away and I'm not going to say why. It's private. However, Dawn's coming with me, if that makes you feel better."

The pair now standing together that were responsible for the Cleveland Slayers House promptly looked at Dawn nodding reassuringly at them both. Xander and Faith relaxed a bit, though they were still clearly concerned about their friend's sudden departure. Delighted at knowing they would miss her, Buffy stepped forward to give Faith a farewell hug. This time, there was no hesitation, as the other Slayer hugged her back right away, though the brunette anxiously whispered into her warrior sister's ear during the embrace, "Are ya really okay, B? We'll help ya, if ya got problems-"

Blinking away sudden tears from this caring offer by her once-enemy, Buffy joyously whispered back, "Faith, I just had the most wonderful news in the world! Everything's great!" After saying this, she let go of Faith and stepped over to Xander. Eyeing the filthy man, the short blonde searched for some place on his body where she could touch him without needed a shower after, and Buffy managed to find a clean spot on Xander's right elbow.

Giggling, Buffy reached out to gently pinch his dirt-free flesh there, quelling her laughter long enough to say, "Too bad I can't be around to see your skin after your mud treatment, Xan! I bet it's going to be as smooth as a baby's bottom!"

Ignoring the sniggering coming from behind him by the baby Slayers, Xander worriedly regarded his Scooby Gang comrade smiling at him. Clearing his throat, the man gruffly said, "Yeah, whatever. Look, this is kind of a shock. Can't you tell us-"

The Los Angeles native firmly shook her head, cutting off Xander's beginning question. Buffy steadily looked her high-school friend in the eye and repeated, "I said, it's private! But everything's going to okay, I swear it. I'll send you and everyone else a message when I can, Xander." Looking around the corridor, Buffy finished, "Well, bye, everyone!" giving them all a parting smile, and stepping back to stand by Dawn and the pile of her packed suitcases.

A somewhat uncertain chorus of farewells came from the baby Slayers and their Heads of the House, as they all watched, and in the case of those females with heightened senses, hearing Buffy whisper to Dawn pulling out a small disk from her jeans pocket, "Keep your head away from me when we get there! I can smell what you ate, and I _really_ don't want it all back on my shoes if you can't control your stomach!" The final glimpse the people in the corridor got of the pair of sisters was of Dawn glaring at Buffy as the younger woman squeezed the disk to begin the spell that would transport the two women to the New Council's main headquarters. An instant later, Buffy, Dawn, and three suitcases vanished into thin air.

For a few moments, there was absolute silence among the people in the Cleveland Slayers House, as they all stared at the empty space where the Summers sisters had been. Finally, the hush was broken with words spoken by someone possessing a very rude nickname.

"Ten bucks says she's pregnant," offered Phillippa McNair.

A prompt uproar began among the baby Slayers, with some loudly discussing this possibility among themselves, and others crowding around Phillippa and digging out money from the pockets of their clothes as that young warrior woman happily took their bets. All of this was done without interference from their guardians, as both were now staring at each other in utter disbelief at this suggested likelihood.

Faith choked out to Xander standing there, his face paper-white. "Ya don't think- What the hell happened 'fore we got there?"

Xander dazedly shook his mud-encrusted head, and muttered, "I dunno! I just got a phone call from some Frenchwoman who wanted to talk to Buffy, or as she called her 'Elizabeth Summairs.' Right after that, Buffy grabbed me by my throat and took the call. I was too busy trying to breathe to pay all that much attention, until she went nutso." The man wonderingly looked at a brooding Faith, and he managed to say, "If…if…she really is….m, that, what are we gonna do about it?"

Faith continued staring blankly off into the distance, until her face firmed in the clear sign of a decision made. She then reached into the back pocket of her jeans, pulled out her wallet, and opened it to count her cash. Pulling out all of the money there and putting her wallet away, she headed towards the crowd of baby Slayers around Phillippa now laying down the odds of boy or girl, ten-to-one on twins or more. Speaking over her shoulder to Xander as she kept on walking, Faith determinedly said, "Well, first thing, I'm gonna put down eighty-two bucks on the baby bein' totally human. _Then_ I'm gonna go up ta my room and just freak out. You do what you wanna do, boytoy."

Xander stared after Faith, until an evil grin abruptly appeared on his dirty features, as he noticed that woman had thoughtlessly let down her guard. Briskly striding after, Xander caught up with Faith in a few steps, and he then struck at her exposed back. Faith found herself abruptly swept up in Xander's clammy embrace, with the man's muddy arms under her lower body smearing her shirtfront, as his grip lifted her up and back to press his entire grubby self against the rear of her clothes, with the woman instantly feeling the grimy dampness dirtying her entire outfit. The whole experience was made even more surreal by Xander chortling into Faith's ear as he held her up close, "Our little Buffster's gonna be a mommy! Isn't that the most fantastic thing you ever heard of in your whole life?"

"GET THE HELL OFFA ME!" howled Faith. Yet, despite being someone strong enough to instantly break free of Xander's hug, the woman just hung there, a frozen expression on her face, as Xander began to dance in the corridor, humming loudly about a certain baby in a treetop, as he carried Faith around the hallway. During one of their twirls, the enthralled baby Slayers watching this saw on Faith's lips a faint grin, which all of the younger women there instantly understood showed not just Faith's delight in the possible news, but also in happily undergoing a perfect Xander Harris payback.


End file.
